Contracted
by Lomonaaeren
Summary: Harry Potter is the perfect Auror, Jared Sandborn is the perfect Minister, and they control the wizarding world between them. One night, Draco Malfoy finds out why, and also what it might take to change things. HPDM eventually. COMPLETE.
1. One Night at the Ministry

**Title: **Contracted

**Disclaimer: **J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this for fun and not profit.

**Pairings: **Harry/Draco eventually, also Harry/OFC, Blaise/Astoria, Ron/Hermione, Ginny/Luna, Pansy/Theodore, and past Draco/Astoria and Draco/OMC

**Rating: **R

**Warnings: **Sex (slash, het, femmeslash), angst, violence, profanity. Ignores the epilogue.

**Summary: **Harry Potter is the perfect Auror, Jared Sandborn is the perfect Minister, and they control the wizarding world between them. One late night at a Ministry gala, seven years after the war, Draco Malfoy finds out why-and what it might take to change things.

**Author's Notes: **This is going to be a fairly long story, with hopefully lots of action, but also lots of angst. At this point, I think it'll be between thirty and forty chapters long.

**Contracted**

_Chapter One-One Night at the Ministry_

Draco was bored.

Not that that was anything unusual when one was at the Ministry without a partner to dance with or talk to and when no scandal swirled in the air, but the boredom didn't usually take on this marble weight, sitting in the bottom of his stomach and poisoning the canapés he'd eaten. Draco shifted his weight from one foot to another, leaned against a pillar, and sipped from the glass of wine he'd picked up two hours ago and still hadn't managed to drain.

Blaise and Astoria were here, but they had danced almost the entire time and didn't want to talk to him. Pansy had been supposed to come, but Theo had had some bloody explosion in his lab at the last minute, and of _course _Pansy had to stay home and help him clean up. There were other people Draco knew, but none he could talk to.

Three days ago, of course, there would have been Peter. But. Now there wasn't.

Draco turned around the pillar to distract himself from that thought, allowing himself to look at the portion of the room he had consciously avoided the entire evening. He was just in time to see Potter leave his date, a tall blonde witch who had enough resemblances to Astoria in the face that Draco knew she had to be a distant cousin, and duck down one of the corridors that led out of the large, echoing hall.

Draco followed without thought. No one was paying him any attention at the moment, he was bored, and there was something intriguingly furtive in Potter's movement.

The last was the most important, of course. According to the papers and the Ministry press releases and the conferences and the speeches and the gossip, Potter had become a perfect statue of a hero since the war: unbending, smiling slightly, making the speeches that the Ministry wanted him to make. And no more.

Draco didn't believe it. No one was _that _inhuman. Sure, he might marry a Ministry-approved woman and have a Ministry-approved career and act calm and cautious in public. But he _had _to have a valve somewhere. An inappropriate lover. A gambling habit. An addiction to Pepper-up Potion.

Draco did not believe in a world where even Potter had become boring.

The corridor bent several times, which helped. Potter also walked with his head bent, not deigning to look up. Draco had to swallow lemon-tinged irritation at that. _Perhaps not boring, but certainly incautious._

Then he had to consider whether Potter had ever acted without risk. But that distracted him from the task in front of him, and he wasn't in the mood for introspection. He shook it away and continued ducking from wall to wall, grateful for the carpet beneath his feet that muffled his steps, unlike the echoing, brilliant blue tile of the gala hall.

Potter halted before what looked like an empty patch of wall. Not that that would fool anyone who had grown up in Hogwarts. Draco paused behind the latest corner and cast a spell that would allow him to track minute changes in magic in the corridor, so he would know where the secret door was when it opened.

But no door opened. Potter waited, now and then ducking his head. His mouth was set. He looked like someone about to have a tooth extracted, Draco decided. He frowned. _He could at least look _excited _about his illicit habits._

More footsteps sounded, sharp and brisk despite the muffling carpet. Draco edged his head around the corner again, and then saw a swirl of brilliant red robes draping a tall, lanky figure he recognized without thought.

_The Minister. _

It only made Draco blink harder. Sandborn and Potter could have met in the Minister's office to discuss whatever they wanted to discuss. They did it all the time, said the conspiracy theories that alleged they ran the wizarding world.

Unless this meeting concerned someone at the gala, of course. Draco felt the marble in his stomach melt at last, and pulled his head fully back behind the wall, casting another charm that would create a small mirror in his hand, and a third that would bend the light from around the corner and route it to the mirror. He wanted to watch this without as much danger of showing himself.

The small glass in the palm of his hand sparkled like a mirage, and then the figures formed. Potter stood as upright as a soldier now, his hands folded behind his back, his legs unnaturally still. Even in his official press photographs, he usually had a hand tapping or his fingers toying with a corner of his sleeve.

Sandborn faced him, smiling. Draco shook his head and wondered again how Sandborn's personality and competence had shone through his looks enough to persuade anyone to vote for him. He was tall, yes, nearly seven feet, but ordinary-looking otherwise: gaunt, pale face, unexciting brown eyes, and a shock of dark hair, much like Potter's except for being utterly straight. Not the sort of man Draco would have chosen to lead him, or credited with much power.

"Auror," said Sandborn.

"Minister." Potter's voice was edged in glass.

Draco blinked. They spent so much time together, they understood each other so well...he had assumed they would be on friendly terms in private.

Sandborn leaned against the wall next to him and sighed. "Auror," he repeated. "You knew we would need a meeting like this when you came to me about the job."

_Job? _Draco shook his head. This was getting odder by the minute. Potter had never shown a sign of wanting to be other than what he was: stolid, stupid, good, a hunting dog. An Auror.

Unless perhaps he was secretly the Ministry's assassin, and that was the sort of job they were talking about? Draco licked his lips to hold back the drool and listened as carefully as he could. He wouldn't take the chance on another charm to conduct sound to his ears right now.

"I knew it," Potter said. "And you knew about my unhappiness. Can we move past this now?"

The eyes of his mirror image rose to meet Sandborn's, and Draco stilled. If anyone had _ever _looked at him like that, he would have run in the other direction.

Sandborn only nodded. "Very well. I know what you want, but I must confess, I had some trouble thinking of something you could pay me back with." He scratched his chin, where shaggy black stubble had gathered. Draco had never seen that, either. Sandborn must use heavier Shaving Charms than Draco thought he did before appearing in public. "Then I thought of it. The bargain you refused before."

Potter stood so straight it must have been painful. "What I want isn't enough-the payments aren't equal," he said with a hiss.

Draco knew he would place this all in a Pensieve the moment he got home. He would have to go over the words, over the nuances. He had no idea what they were talking about, and it was fascinating.

"Why not?" Sandborn looked him over lazily. "You receive companionship, loyalty, a boost in the eyes of the public. And your friend receives his job."

"Mr. Weasley is only going to stay in the Ministry a few more decades before he retires." Potter looked as if he had swallowed poison. "I'd be _married _to Callia for the rest of my life."

Draco didn't breathe. His lungs ached, but he didn't care. He had to work hard to keep his fingers from closing on the edges of the mirror and making it crumble into dust and air.

"True," Sandborn conceded after a moment. "Then think of something else you want. There's _always _something else," he added, as Potter half-flung up his head and gritted his teeth. "I know you. I know what you'll ask for. Not in detail, of course, but in outline. There's never going to be enough to satisfy that bottomless craving you have for a better world. So, ask."

Potter closed his eyes and rubbed his right temple with his palm. Then he nodded, a movement that made it seem as if lead weights hung from his neck. "All right. I want you to promise that you won't seek re-election after twelve years."

Sandborn's smile disappeared. He searched Potter's face, craning his neck forwards to do so. Potter kept his eyes closed.

"That you would ask for that," Sandborn said, voice soft, a bare thrum that Draco had to hush his own heartbeat to hear. "When you know what the source of your gifts is. When you know what it will cost you if I vanish."

"You _know _what your every request costs me," Potter said, his eyes more steady than Draco had ever seen them. After seeing some of the photos where Potter never looked anyone in the eye but beamed benevolently into the space over the heads of the crowd, he had assumed there was some Gryffindor rot about not wanting to favor certain people with a glance there.

But Potter had no trouble looking straight at Sandborn, despite the muscle jumping in his jaw. And, unglazed and narrowed with hatred, Draco thought, those green eyes really were almost handsome. If he had ever shown a trace of this deep, thunderous emotion, than Potter could have run for Minister himself.

"You know what this marriage will cost me," Potter said. His voice softened but not, Draco thought, out of respect for Sandborn's sensibilities. "And there will a second gift, if you like, to match the job for Mr. Weasley and your retirement on your side. I'll give you an oath that I'll remain with Callia and-in the position that you've tried to put me in."

Sandborn considered him, quiet and sober, the way he had looked in the _Daily Prophet _when rumors of a new Dark Lord started circulating two years ago. Those rumors had come to nothing, Draco remembered, but Sandborn had taken them seriously because Potter did. He had rolled his eyes at the time and scoffed to Astoria, since they were still dating, that it was as if Sandborn felt some brotherly concern for Potter, some _need _to give weight to everything he said simply because it was Potter saying it.

Now, Draco thought the bond that tied them rather different.

"A large sacrifice," Sandborn said at last.

Potter's shoulders shook a bit, his mouth open. It took Draco a moment to realize that he was laughing without a sound. When he could calm his wheezes down, he said, "And the ones I've made so far haven't been?"

"You've earned large gifts in return," Sandborn pointed out. "Or do you think that the Wizengamot would have just _happened _to exonerate every younger Death Eater without your interference?"

Something crept up Draco's throat and covered his eyes for a moment, interfering with his sight and hearing of this meeting. It took him another moment to recognize it as rage. He swallowed and blinked furiously and kept listening.

"No." Potter pulled the laughter back into himself, and his words became glass-edged again. "My marriage and oath in return for the job and your oath. Agreed?"

Sandborn spent some more time looking off into space, as if splitting it up into increments of time and deciding how much more he could accomplish with twelve years spent in office. Then he looked back at Potter. "Agreed."

Potter inclined his head and looked around, as if he expected a house-elf to appear with a glass of wine. Sandborn snapped his fingers and flicked his wand at the same time, and a small table appeared in front of Potter with a sheaf of papers on it. Potter picked up the fancy quill, tipped with gold, that lay next to them and began to flick through them, reading the legal language with a practiced eye that rattled Draco further. The day Potter demonstrated some experience with legalese was, he thought, the day that Draco began to look beneath his mask of perfect heroic nobility.

Then he remembered he had seen beneath that mask already, and his intuition that no one could be as perfect as Potter without special help was correct.

"You realize that this limits my power to help you," Sandborn said softly, when Potter had signed three pages and was pressing the quill into a fourth. "With my influence gone from office, the next Minister might not be so willing to give you the gifts you've come to expect. Or the Wizengamot, for that matter."

Potter gave another one of those soundless laughs without looking up from the parchment. "You're misunderstanding the reason I agreed to take on this contract, as always," he murmured, and signed his name with a flourish that made the quill spark brilliantly in the light. He flipped through a few more pages, then tapped them neatly into order and held out both contract and quill to Sandborn.

Sandborn took them, but his eyes were still fastened to Potter's face as if he could compel him to listen that way. "Then tell me the reason," he said, with the earnest desire to learn that Draco heard in most of his speeches. "I'd like to understand you better. We work so closely together, and yet, I would say that we know each other less than you and Callia do."

Potter uttered his flat laugh aloud this time. "I would _hope _so, when Callia and I are going to be married." He spoke as if he were being marched to the altar and the Bonder instead of walking there. Well, Draco thought, still fascinated, he would have reason to do so. If he hadn't heard the words and seen Potter accept the bargain himself, he wouldn't have believed that Harry Bloody Potter would ever sell his soul and body to the Ministry.

"You know what I mean, Harry." Sandborn swayed forwards on his toes, eyes locked to Potter's. "There's nothing you can tell me about this? Nothing to make me understand why you sought freedom and glory and security for others, instead of power for yourself?"

Draco nearly snorted and gave away his position. Even _he _could have answered that question for Sandborn. Potter made deals like this because he was ridiculously noble, of course, and because he wouldn't have the first idea what to do with power if offered.

But Potter paused, observing Sandborn with a quiet ferocity that finally seemed to worry the Minister. At least, he turned away to sign the contract, his gaze sliding from Potter like oil from water.

"No," Potter said. "There's nothing. Not at this stage." He began to move back down the corridor towards Draco, his steps as quiet as before.

Draco crushed the tiny mirror in his palm and cast a Disillusionment Charm without thinking. Potter walked past him, eyes and face set. When he vanished around the corner, Draco took a slight breath and turned to check that Sandborn was also gone.

He was. Draco shook his head, mind buzzing. He wanted to get back out into the gala hall and consider what he'd heard. It would take some effort to settle these thoughts into their proper place.

As well as decide what to do about the debt that he apparently owed Potter, for binding himself by promises and oaths to ensure Draco's freedom.

"Don't move."

A wand rested on his shoulder, and Potter's voice was in his ear, quiet and controlled. Draco froze, staring at the part of the corridor where the Minister and Potter had chatted. The wand moved back and forth, as though estimating Draco's height, and then Potter whispered _Finite, _mouth still close enough to his shoulder to make the tiny hairs on the back of his neck shift back and forth.

The Disillusionment Charm broke. Potter drew in a harsh breath. Draco lifted his eyebrows. "Surprised?" he asked the wall he was staring at.

"Malfoy."

No, there was no real surprise in his tone, Draco realized, not past the first minute. He turned around and found Potter leaning with one arm against the nearest door, his face lined and his eyes, this close, bloodshot.

He said nothing. Draco rubbed his shoulder where the wand had rested and tried for a joke. "I'll have you know that of the many spells cast on these robes, none renders them impervious to drool."

"You heard," Potter said. "Overheard."

He didn't sound upset about it, which made Draco look harder at him. But there seemed nothing else to see. Hair raked down so the fringe hid his famous scar, sure. Robes impeccably neat as they had been since he began doing what the Ministry wanted him to do-since he became Sandborn's pet, Draco mentally decided-of course. Stance full of self-assured power, his magic brimming beneath his skin like a full cup of water, check. He looked as though this was nothing important for him, no life-changing event but a mere stop in the road.

"Well?" Draco asked, when the silence between them felt firm enough to walk on.

Potter shrugged with one shoulder. The weariness remained in his face, but already a change was coming over his expression, sealing it away. He looked now like the man Draco had seen at the gala, smiling at the people who spoke to him, flirting with his date-his fiancée, as of two minutes ago-and dancing with a grace that Draco knew the Ministry must have hired people to teach him. "Well? Nothing. You could tell someone if you wanted, of course, but there's so much deniability here that you'll make no headway. Besides, why should someone take the word of a former Death Eater over the word of the Heroes of the Wizarding World?"

Draco hesitated. He might have slinked away, actually, if it hadn't been for the tone behind Potter's last words. He quoted the title as if he was reading it out of the article he'd seen it in, and his voice went limp and dull around it.

That changed things, a bit. Enough for Draco to reply, "You don't think that the wizarding world you're supposed to be the heroes of would be interested in a contract between the Minister and the Head Auror?"

Potter jerked a little, as if he hadn't realized that Draco overheard that much, and then laughed soundlessly again. Draco frowned. He didn't like the sound any better when he was the recipient of it, and it made him wonder if Potter had forgotten what it was like to laugh with noise behind it.

"No," Potter said. "Not really. You can sell the story, of course, but there'll be no proof. You'll ask us, and we'll be ready with _our _stories, which are more interesting. And then Sandborn will make life difficult for you. What you have, what I've traded for for you, isn't worth risking for this."

Draco leaned forwards. "What did you trade in return for our freedom?" he asked.

"Thinking of yourself as part of a collective?" Potter gave him a faint smile that seemed more genuine than most he'd seen that evening. "I didn't think Slytherins were prone to that."

"I know what the word _we _means," Draco said. "So do the rest. As in the sentence, 'We don't want to owe a debt to someone who sacrificed himself to save us.'"

Potter rolled his eyes, as if he couldn't tell how much this mattered from the tone of Draco's voice. "You don't owe me a debt unless you already did. There was the little matter of me dying at Hogwarts so that I could save you-collective you. And why does it make a difference whether I paid in the coin of heroism or something else for your freedom? You knew I testified at the trials."

Draco shook his head. He didn't know if he could explain it when Potter didn't see the difference already, but the flat way Potter looked at him said that he would have to try. "That wouldn't have been a personal _sacrifice,_" he said. "When I thought the wizarding world and the Wizengamot gave you whatever you wanted and we were a side-effect-that's one thing. That's acceptable. But you sold yourself."

Potter's nostrils flared. "Traded," he corrected. "And of course I did. What else did I have to trade?"

Draco grinned with all his teeth. "That word _sold_ bothers you, doesn't it? You don't like hearing yourself referred to as the whore you are?"

Potter moved, turning smoothly to the side as he seized Draco's shoulder and flung him against the wall. Draco jolted, breath gone and back of the head banging. Then Potter's hand was behind his head, cradling him against further contact with the stone, even as his wand dug sharply into Draco's windpipe.

"You _like _what you have?" Potter whispered harshly. "The lack of Ministry guard dogs? The way that you were permitted to keep your property and your money? The return of those artifacts that were seized as Dark and the fucking _apologies _you got? All that was me. Probe into it, and Sandborn can reverse the gains as easily."

Draco stared. Potter quivered at him, his eyes so brilliant that Draco imagined he could see stars in them. His magic writhed about him in a slow, pale violet wave, climbing and falling back again, a manifestation at once of threat and control that Draco had never seen the equal of.

He licked his lips. _This _was the Potter he hadn't seen for seven years, not the serene automaton who had spoken at his trial or the tame pet who had accepted the Minister's decrees. This was the man Draco owed his debt to.

"That was all you," he said, to confirm it.

Potter snorted. "Yes. They wanted to send everyone with the slightest connection to a Death Eater to prison. I intervened." He didn't sound proud of it. The light in his face had begun to fade. He watched Draco with simple caution now, like someone keeping an eye on a rat in the middle of a room.

"What did you trade?" Draco asked.

Potter twisted his neck. "What does it matter?"

"Indulge my curiosity," Draco said. "And you have my word that I won't try to undo what you won by going to the _Prophet _or questioning the Minister."

Potter considered him, hand tightening behind Draco's head. Draco realized how close to the same height they were like this, and licked his lips again.

"Fine," Potter said. "I promised to enter the Auror training program, support the Ministry in its public declarations about the war, give interviews to the _Daily Prophet, _and give speeches whenever they were required of me."

Draco nodded grimly. "That was for, what, the first year?"

"About, yes." Potter's hands dropped away from Draco, and he took a step back. "Why do you care?"

"Does the contract have any magically binding parts?"

Potter gave him a mocking bow. "No. Nothing but my word and those gifts that can be taken away, and the same on Sandborn's side. Your freely-signed away whore, right here."

Draco winced at the word. He couldn't have said why, and trying to explain to Potter would be too complicated.

"All right," he said, and walked past Potter, one hand brushing at his shoulder. Potter jumped and flinched at the contact, and opened his mouth as if he would ask questions, but Draco was already gone, back to the gala, his cloak billowing behind him the way he so often tried to make it do and so rarely achieved. His mind was churning.

He would have to do something about this.

He was no longer bored.


	2. Quiet Hours at Home

Thank you for all the reviews!

_Chapter Two-Quiet Hours at Home_

"I'll see you tomorrow, of course, Harry?"

Callia's voice was as flawless and soft as a snowflake. Harry leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, which was much the same way. "Of course. We need to start planning the wedding."

Callia leaned forwards, bracing herself with a hand on his arm as she stared into his eyes. Harry hid a sigh. He was used to this mannerism of hers by now, this obsessive need to look at his face. She seemed to think that she would catch him lying if she did that, or at least be able to tell more easily when he did it.

Harry's lies ran so deep that he would be surprised if any of them surfaced in his eyes by now. But Callia smiled as if satisfied and stepped back, leaving only her fingers in place to stroke his arm. "Good. I'm so glad that we've finally taken this step, Harry." Her voice dipped. "So happy. You've no idea."

She turned and walked up the path that led from the front door to the wall around his house before he could respond. Harry sighed and waited until she was beyond the wards and had safely Apparated, then shut the door.

More wards sprang into place when he did that, with a click softer than the sound of the lock snapping into place. Harry turned around and pressed his back against the wood, letting his head drop into his hands. His magic stretched around him, thrummed, and then relaxed, the way it never could in the outside world.

Another day of playing nice for the Ministry ended, another chance to be himself again for a few hours.

Harry raised his head and moved towards the bathroom. He kept three different kinds of soap there, including a sharp lye that reminded him of the sort Aunt Petunia had thought would be good for scrubbing his mouth out. It _was_ good at removing the traces of ink from his hands. He washed until his skin was bright red and then turned towards the kitchen. He hadn't eaten anything at the Ministry gala, he never did. His stomach churned too much. He and Sandborn had a separate deal that covered the way he had to eat at banquets as well as payment for the anti-nausea potions.

The kitchen had three cabinets filled with preservation charms and the sort of food that it was easy to preserve with those particular spells: bread, cheese, crackers, rice, curry. Harry made himself a cheese sandwich and sat down at the table, forcing himself to chew carefully. He'd been at the Ministry all day before the gala, though, and his stomach ached.

When he'd finished, he leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes.

He should have known that Sandborn would find some way to force him into the marriage with Callia.

Harry shrugged with one shoulder. Well. He had made the bargain _he _wanted to, in return, and Sandborn was a fool if he thought the job for Mr. Weasley-nice as that would be to ensure that Mrs. Weasley and George, who lived with her, stayed out of poverty-was the real reason. Harry had achieved what he wanted.

He waited to feel some sort of triumph, but he had just had too many victories down the years. What he felt was more like the sensation he got when knocking on a piece of brass instead. It sent up the right echoes and made a durable impression on his knuckles. That was good enough.

He yawned, and went about the business of kicking off his shoes and Transfiguring his robes into pyjamas. He never bothered to keep any sets of the ridiculously expensive robes he went to the parties and galas in. Sandborn would always buy him new ones, and this way, he didn't have to look at any of them hanging in his home.

His bedroom was the biggest room in the house, and Harry had paid a lot for the enchantment that made it seem as if his window was always open, with a cool breeze blowing in on him. No bars, not ever again. He had enough of those elsewhere in his life.

He lay down on top of the sheets and felt his eyelids droop. Falling asleep so soon? Well. That was nice.

Confused images of Callia's face and Malfoy's tried to come back to him, but Harry banished them with the ease of long efficiency. He'd made his bargains and his deals with the devil. The _important _thing was that he had chosen freely to do this, and one of those choices included keeping business out of his home. Not even his friends came here. Harry found it hard to look at them against the plain walls and few photographs without remembering what he'd done for them.

A few moments more, and he was asleep.

* * *

"Blaise!" Draco called as he came through the Floo connection. "I need to talk to you."

His voice echoed into what sounded like an empty room, and Draco stopped with a blink. He wouldn't have expected _that _from Blaise and Astoria, whose home sometimes seemed like the Slytherin common room transplanted into another building and given new decorations. He turned around slowly, looking up the twisting steel staircase in one corner-Astoria'd had that installed to keep people from climbing to the first floor easily, since what went on up there didn't belong to their guests-and then at the closed doors in the far wall.

"Blaise?" he called again.

A muffled giggle sounded. Draco rolled his eyes. Yes, all right, so Blaise and Astoria had a life together. That didn't mean that they had to let it take over the _house_.

Sure enough, an _extremely _chubby nine-month-old squirmed out from beneath the staircase a moment later. She crawled on her feet and hands towards him, arching her stomach so that it came off the tiled floor. Draco bent down and swooped her up, turning her around so that she had to face his disapproving scowl. She squirmed in his grip, too; it seemed to be her natural state of being. She had pretty dark skin, but her hair and her eyes both couldn't decide what color they wanted to be, though brown was mixed in them somewhere, and traces of Astoria's blonde and dark green.

"Tell me where your parents are," Draco told her, deadly serious. "Or I may be forced to take hostages, and no one wants that."

"Least of all Aurora," said Astoria's voice from behind him, and Blaise's arms reached over Draco's shoulder to pick up their daughter. Draco remained standing where he was for a moment, examining his empty hands with a grave expression, before he turned around and shook his head at his friends.

"_I_ see," he said. "You're not good enough to show up when I call, but one threat to your precious daughter and you come out of hiding."

Astoria's eyes laughed at him. Blaise handed her Aurora and leaned forwards to shake Draco's hand and pound his shoulder, once.

"Is that sufficient?" he asked. "We heard you, but we were-occupied."

"Ah, thank you for informing me of the latest polite circumlocution for it," Draco said, eyeing Astoria's disheveled hair and the crooked way that Blaise had buttoned his shirt.

"Really, we were," Astoria said, and swept Aurora up to her shoulder, leading the way further into the house. "We'd left Aurora with one of the elves, but Mizzy takes orders from her now, if you can believe it. When she tosses one of her toys in the opposite direction and then reaches for it, Mizzy goes to fetch it, and then to clean it-because it can't be good for the baby's mouth if it rolled on the floor, of course-and Aurora can crawl away." She tapped the baby's back with one finger and tried to look stern. "We'll have to break her of that habit as soon as we can."

On cue, Mizzy appeared, giving that particularly heart-broken wail of a house-elf. Draco plugged his ears and turned aside with Blaise into the dining room, leaving Astoria to deal with both Mizzy and Aurora for the moment.

Blaise waved him to a seat at the gleaming, scarred oak table, and came back with a tumbler of the lemon-flavored water that he knew Draco preferred. He didn't have anything to drink, which Draco thought was a mistake. He would have wanted something if he'd had any inkling of the nature of Draco's news. On the other hand, this way meant Draco would be able to surprise him.

"Well?" Blaise asked. "It must be pretty urgent to bring you out here on a Saturday."

Draco raised his eyebrows. "I was unaware that I needed permission to visit my best friend and my former girlfriend any day of the week."

"Yes, but Saturdays you usually sleep in and then let the house-elves do your hair, which takes longer," Blaise said matter-of-factly. "This is _before _noon, though I can see how you might have confused the sunlight with the shine off your hair."

Draco sighed. "Your jealousy of my natural coloring grows tiresome, Blaise. I think you already have all the blonde hair spread on your pillow that you could want."

Blaise grinned and leaned back in his chair. "Right. So. What is it?"

Draco looked towards the door of the kitchen as Astoria came through, brushing house-elf tears off her hands and looking as though she could use a drink. She Summoned the materials for one before Draco could offer to get it for her, and sat down at the table to pour her whisky. "Mizzy grows more importunate by the day," she muttered. "I've told her not to take orders from Aurora until she at least starts _talking_." She caught Draco's eye and Blaise's, then, and straightened up. "What is it?" she asked.

"Yes, what is it?" Blaise asked, more softly. He would have known by now that Draco had paused because this concerned Astoria, rather than because he didn't want her to hear.

Draco had considered several times this morning how to phrase things, and had decided bluntly would be best. The situation was so incredible, so outside even the suspicions of him and his friends, that he didn't see how he _could _make it known with gentle hints. "We owe Potter a debt," he said. "All of us. I'd believed the Wizengamot exonerated us and gave us our houses and money back because of his testimony."

"They didn't," Blaise said, eyes not moving from Draco's face. Astoria leaned forwards, cradling the whisky.

"No," Draco agreed. "Potter made bargains with Minister Sandborn. He's the Ministry's little slave-boy for the sake of our freedom, and then-for the sake of other things. He makes speeches, we walk free. He smiles for them and gives interviews, we get our apologies. And so on." He picked up his glass and took a deep swallow, doubly glad that he didn't have alcohol at the moment. It would be a crime to waste the kind of alcohol that Blaise had on hand this way.

"How?" Astoria asked softly. "I'll be honest, I could never see Potter simply sacrificing himself to save people he didn't know personally."

"But that's what he did at Hogwarts," Blaise said, with a tone of long-suffering that Draco hadn't heard before. Still, it made sense that they would only discuss Potter when he wasn't around. It was a subject he had a tendency to react...unfortunately to. "I'll admit I didn't suspect this, but it makes sense." He turned back to Draco. "How did the Minister convince him?"

"A contract-"

"Magically binding?" Blaise's eyes were cold, and his fingers had tightened on the table to the extent that Draco thought he might break something.

"No," Draco said. "Not from what he told me. I saw him and Sandborn signing it, a new bargain. Potter knew I was watching, and told me that much when he caught me."

"Does Sandborn know you know?" Astoria's voice was deeper and cooler.

Draco shook his head. "I'm virtually sure that he doesn't. Potter waited until he was gone to say anything to me."

"What was Potter's latest bargain?"

Draco knew he showed his teeth when he grinned. "A new job for Arthur Weasley," he said. "And that Sandborn retire in twelve years."

Astoria's glass slipped from her hand, and she barely caught it in time. "What could he have offered Sandborn to make it worth _that_?"

"His own marriage," Draco said. "As well as an oath to remain in his 'position'-which would be slave to the Ministry and impeccable Auror, I would assume-as long as Sandborn wants, even after he's retired."

Blaise and Astoria locked eyes. Draco patiently waited out their silent conversation. They were much better at this than he and Astoria had been, one of the reasons that Astoria had decided that she would be more comfortable with Blaise. Draco had been agreeable by then; watching two people try not to flirt in front of him for a fortnight always had a softening effect on his reservations.

"But that doesn't make sense," Astoria whispered.

"Tell me about it." Draco finished his water and held out the glass in a silent demand. Blaise went to fetch it, leaving Astoria to look earnestly at Draco and scrape a fingernail down the table.

"Potter would have no reason to make such sacrifices," she said. "He might know us better now, but he didn't at the time. And he's always been a believer in true love and the rest of that rot. He wouldn't make a marriage purely at the Ministry's urging. Perhaps he loves Callia and doesn't want to acknowledge that to Sandborn, because he wants the Minister to believe he has him over a barrel?"

Draco leaned closer. "Callia is your cousin?"

"_Distant _cousin," Astoria said, drawing herself up like a Kneazle asked to play fetch. "And believe me when I say that she is a traditionalist. She'll demand a big wedding from Potter, the happy marriage in public no matter what they say to each other in private, the perfect children, the gifts of money. Potter must know what he's getting into by marrying her."

"That part genuinely didn't seem to matter to him," Draco said, reaching out and accepting the glass of water that Blaise handed him as he came back to the table. "Only what he could gain by going through with the marriage."

"Do you think he's mad?" Blaise asked, sitting down again. A sharp wail broke out in the distance and both he and Astoria started to rise, but sat back down when it ended in a flurry of patting and crooned house-elf words.

"No," Draco said. "Not by any conventional meaning of the word, at least. It's as if-he's lived this way so long that he can't comprehend any other way to live."

Blaise nodded slightly. "Then he won't do anything to change his situation."

"I can't imagine it."

"Then we must," Astoria said, and once again she and Blaise looked at each other. "While making sure that we retain what Potter has won for us."

"Yes," Draco said. It was the conclusion that he had wanted them to come to, but it wouldn't have mattered if they hadn't reached it on their own. This wasn't the sort of action that a friend could _lead _friends to. It would take too much work and require too much commitment to someone who, until today, they hadn't realized was committed to them. "And at the moment, I confess, I have no idea how to do that."

A small smile worked its way across Astoria's lips. Blaise picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. "My lady of battles," he said. "What idea do you have?"

"One that you and I can work on," she said. She cast a glance at Draco. "_Your _task will be keeping Potter off-balance and occupied with you so that he can't interfere with our business."

"As long as it's not the kind of business that occupied you when I got here," Draco said gravely, "I have no objections."

* * *

"Mate, you want a cuppa?"

Harry smiled at Ron and waved him away. He had a report to finish and another file to look at "as a favor"-one of those times when another pair of Aurors had solved a case but wanted Harry to look over the evidence because they had a nagging suspicion that someone had escaped or they'd missed something. Harry only found something on about fifty percent of those cases, but that was a high enough number to always make him look. "I'm busy. You go enjoy."

"You're not human, sometimes," Ron muttered, slipping out the office door. "The way that you _enjoy _the paperwork."

Harry grunted. Ron had no idea. Enjoyment and investment in every aspect of his job, at least in public, was what Sandborn had demanded in exchange for the law that forbade owners to physically abuse house-elves. Ron's baffled and concerned looks when Harry spent all day in the office writing a report were nothing compared to the expression of joy on Hermione's face the day she heard.

Ron was gone, and Harry sank back into the report. He changed "much less hard" to "substantially less difficult"-Hermione was always after him to improve his vocabulary-and signed his name, then cast the report aside with a sigh.

"Good. I see that I'm not interrupting you."

The voice went through Harry like an arrow, but he kept his gaze mildly inquiring as he looked up at Malfoy. "Good morning. Are you lost? I can direct you to the Head Auror's office if you need to see him."

"You don't need to sound like a fool," Malfoy said, stepping further into the office and tugging the door shut behind him. "Just because you are one."

Harry sighed and sat back in his chair. Sometimes things like this happened, where someone thought he'd figured out what lay between Harry and Sandborn. Few of them had as direct a proof as Malfoy did, having witnessed them signing the contract with his own eyes, but Harry had always managed to persuade them to give up. Acting the polished arsehole worked well.

"There's nothing I can help you with, unless you need an audience for your insults," he said. "And you should know that my partner will be back soon. I don't think he'll like finding you here."

"Your partner is Weasley?" Malfoy asked, as if he couldn't have picked that up from the papers. He sat on Ron's desk, kicking his legs back and forth as he looked slowly around the office. Harry saw his eyes track the framed photographs on the walls, the multiple Orders of Merlin, the more specialized Ministry awards and Auror awards. They filled the room with a daze of light. Harry had more or less got used to them, but knew they would impress someone who came in unexpectedly.

"Yeah," Harry said, folding his hands behind his head. "And I remember that you didn't get along at school."

Malfoy gave him a look like steel nails. "Neither did you and I, but we seem to be doing fine right now."

Harry sighed again. "If you can call an exchange of hostilities a civil conversation. Seriously, what did you want? You must know there's no point in renewing the subject you raised the last time we talked."

"Why not?" Malfoy gripped the edge of the desk with one hand. Harry blinked in pleasure. "You would want some way out from under Sandborn if someone offered it to you, wouldn't you?"

Harry felt hope starting to life. He burned it and rolled his eyes. "Please. I entered into the contract of my own free will. There's no-counterspell, or whatever you were thinking you could find, for something like that."

"I was talking about a method that would keep what you've fought for safe, while getting you out from under his thumb."

"There's no reason for you to do that," Harry said. He tried to remember if Malfoy had been this stubborn in school. When he wanted to get Harry in trouble, maybe. Harry relaxed as he remembered that. Malfoy was probably thinking about the way Harry's friends would react if they found out, and how the press would call him weak. Well, he should think about that again. One good thing about Harry's position of strength was that his friends and the public would believe in _him_ implicitly, rather than whatever pathetic fiction Malfoy devised.

"There is," Malfoy said. "I owe you. So does Blaise. So do Astoria and her sister Daphne. Gregory. Theo. Pansy. _All _of us you fought to free."

"As you reminded me on Friday," Harry said smoothly, "I didn't _fight _for it any more than a whore fights when she spreads her legs. But if you really want to repay me, fine. There's this necklace I've had my eye on for Callia, but I can't justify spending that much money-"

Malfoy surged to his feet. Harry gripped his wand. It turned out the wanker didn't actually cross the distance between the desks, though, because he sagged back. "Have you thought about what it would do to _her_ if she found out the real reason you're marrying her?" he asked. "What it would do to your friends if they found out what you'd sacrificed for them?"

"They won't ever know," Harry said. "For them, it'll be as if it never happened."

Malfoy stared at him. His eyelashes glittered around his eyes, Harry thought, and knew the idiot must have cast a charm on them to make them do that. _Who was he trying to impress? _"I never thought I would hear the embodiment of Gryffindor chivalry and courtesy say something like that," he muttered.

Harry gave a hard little smile. "I'll give you some advice, Malfoy. For free. The way the _real _world works is that you set out with your high hopes of changing things and then get crushed by the forces of power and money. I learned that the hard way, so I made my bargain, and now I'm part of those forces. You might as well repay the debt, if it exists, the way I asked you to. It would inconvenience you too much to try the other way."

Malfoy stared at him. Harry looked back, but there was something in those grey eyes he hadn't seen in years, either in Sandborn's knowing gaze or the trusting and adoring faces of his friends. He found himself glancing down, away.

"Cynicism isn't reality," Malfoy whispered. "It's a shallow pose that you use to hold back pain."

Harry didn't know whether he meant the personal or the general "you," and he didn't care to learn. He cast a spell that made Malfoy stagger and put a hand to his head. "Right now your breath is starting to stink of alcohol, and in about five minutes you're going to need to vomit," Harry said evenly. "Anyone who sees you will assume that you've drunk too much-isn't that what you decadent Slytherin types do all day?-and need to visit the loo. That you're here because you don't know what you're doing. I'm offering you a door out, Malfoy. Take it."

Malfoy managed to remain upright all the way to the door, which Harry had to admit was a better track record than most people managed with that spell. He braced himself with a hand on the wall near the door and looked over his shoulder. "You have no idea what I'll do to get out of owing a debt, Potter."

Harry looked at him and let the empty soul he used when he conversed with Sandborn, Callia, and most of the Ministry officials show in his eyes. He had three souls now: one for the public, one for his friends, and one for himself. Malfoy had seen a glimpse of the one Harry showed his friends the other night, and hadn't had the good sense to retreat. He might, now. "I can embarrass you in ways that you can't _imagine _right now," Harry said softly. "I have access to information and allies more powerful than any your father possessed. Get _out_, Malfoy."

The door opened then, and Ron stepped in with his tea. "They didn't have-" he began, and stared at Malfoy, his face shifting to red in an instant.

"I'll be going," Malfoy said. "But you'll need to think about what I said." He staggered out.

Ron laughed, but not as if he found it funny. "Drinking? Him? And he just had to harass you, I reckon." He held out the cup of tea. "I got you some anyway."

Harry took it with a smile and his second soul showing. "Thanks. Yeah, I reckon that's what he was here for."

Meanwhile, he hoped that his silent thoughts could reach Malfoy, who would be head-down in a toilet right about now.

_I didn't ask for rescue. I've only asked one person for things since the war, and I've always paid him off with interest. _

_ I'll never ask anyone for anything again._


	3. A Week of Altering Arrangements

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Three-A Week of Altering Arrangements_

"What do you have for me?" Draco motioned Astoria through the Floo. It was still open to her without his having to take any special precautions, but he didn't think it would be a good idea to tell her that. She would only start to think about the past, and Draco didn't want her to regret what she'd given up when she went to be with Blaise.

Astoria gave him a sharp-edged smile and slapped a thick sheaf of parchment down on the edge of the kitchen table. Draco picked it up and turned it to the light. He could see the words scribbled all over it at once, but the photographs that clung to the upper right-hand corners of most of the pages were his main targets of interest.

"A plan," she said. "You wouldn't believe how _easy _it is to find corruption-worthy material on the Wizengamot members when you look."

Draco blinked at her over the top of the parchment. "Yes, I would. That's because they're false leads planted by Sandborn. I'd already looked into the possibility of blackmail, and dismissed it. He owns the ones that we would need to blackmail, the way he owns Potter. Perhaps even the _same _way," he added, thinking about it now. He hadn't suspected the existence of multiple contracts, but it would make more sense than the idea that the Wizengamot members all had multiple innocent explanations for their every move.

"You didn't look as hard as I did."

Draco laid down the parchments again and gave Astoria a gentle look. "Dear, we've _discussed _talking about our sex life outside of bed."

Astoria rolled her eyes at him, a sadly inelegant gesture that Draco had never managed to rid her of. "We all know that you can't keep your attention on anything for long, Draco," she said. "Except sex."

"And paying Potter back," Draco said. He had paid back every monetary debt he'd contracted after the war, and several of the ones that had been meant as simple favors. Astoria inclined her head enough to let her hair brush the edge of the table, then sat back again and crossed her legs neatly.

"Yes," she said. "But you _didn't _look enough into the Wizengamot members. My main target for blackmail is on page three."

Draco flipped there and found himself staring at a picture of a tall woman with an emerald necklace gleaming at her throat that temporarily stole his attention from her short dark hair, her pale coloring, and her large teeth that all but screamed Muggle blood. "This is Jenna-Jane Rettern," he said.

Astoria touched her fingertips together in applause. "Well done, Draco, recognizing people by their faces instead of their bloodlines! Yes, it is. And I happen to know that Sandborn turned her daughter down for a position as his secretary six years ago. Rettern won't forget that."

Draco frowned. "It doesn't seem like Sandborn would leave himself open to opposition from that quarter. Surely he'll have defused it by now. Given the girl a position somewhere else in the Ministry."

Astoria chuckled richly. "He did offer her one. When she arrived for the interview, it turned out that it wasn't open to people related to Wizengamot members, and she'd been made to look like a greedy idiot. Sandborn was there, of course, to express his apologies and talk about how they needed a better information network in the Ministry to spread news of the requirements." Astoria leaned forwards. "Sandborn is a good Minister, but he isn't always wise. He _has _to demonstrate that he has control, more than once, or the upper hand where complete control isn't possible. He went too far this time. I think Rettern will cooperate with us."

Draco nodded. That would explain some of what he'd seen about Sandborn's behavior with Potter last Friday, too, wanting more when he ought to have known the terms of the business and the contracts by now and accepted them more gracefully than the coerced Potter. "Very well. Which part of the gains Potter won for us do you think she would help us preserve?"

"The most important," Astoria said. "Our money. Rettern's made a career out of tracking corruption and graft. She'll find a weak link in the chain of the people who would benefit if we had our money taken away-or, more to the point-"

"The people who would have benefitted seven years ago," Draco finished, nodding. Then he sighed and fluttered his eyelashes at Astoria. "We can finish each other's sentences. That's a sign of compatibility, according to Celestina Warbeck's latest song. What a pity that we didn't stay together."

"What a pity that we both had a weakness for someone of the more masculine persuasion," Astoria said sweetly, and stood. "My mother's second cousin once removed is one of the Hit Wizards assigned to take care of Rettern. He can get me a meeting. I'll let you know what I've learned in no more than a day."

She strode to the fireplace, while Draco saluted her back with his glass for the sake of the fast work she'd managed, and not for the sake of the insult she'd fired. If Blaise was more masculine than Peter, Draco would be surprised. Then again, he'd never seen Blaise naked.

He entertained a wistful thought about that, but Astoria would kill him and Blaise would be laughing too hard to stop her from doing it. He turned his attention to the next part of his task. Astoria and Blaise had good plans, but they were only two people. He needed more help.

Luckily, he hadn't been kidding when he detailed the list of all the people who would owe Potter to the captive Golden Boy himself. He checked the time, smiled, and tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fire. "Nott's Nest," he called out.

As he suspected, given the hour, that earned him a lot of indignant scrambling and curses from Pansy, who _never _had learned how to clean her language up the way a lady should. Draco arranged himself in a languid pose and watched Pansy and Theo attempt to do up their robes.

"You owe Potter a debt for saving your house and your arses," he told them, and enjoyed the artistic effect of one kind of surprise piled on top of another.

* * *

"Mate!"

Harry appreciated Ron's half-yelp. It gave him notice enough to dive to the floor, which meant the spell went over his head, which meant it lit the far wall of the room on fire instead of his hair. He paused to toss a quick thanks to Ron, then rolled to the side and cast a rope spell. It coiled around the calf of the witch who was currently doing her best to kill both of them. Harry rolled again, tugging, and heard her shriek and crash.

That didn't mean she was any less dangerous, of course, unless he'd managed to make her hit her head. She would be vicious until they could bind her hands and gag her mouth. Harry came back to one knee and whirled around.

The witch, torn blue robes sprawled around her along with tangled blonde hair that reminded him far too much of Callia's, had her wand aimed at Ron. Ron was busy battling one of the shadow-creatures she'd conjured, all beaks and horns and tentacles, and didn't see.

Harry chanted the spells that came to mind almost casually. Although he tried to keep alert to unusual elements during the latest Dark wizard crisis, it really _was _casual by now, much easier than it had been back when he first started. "_Expelliarmus. Stupefy. Incarcerous. Protego._"

The witch's wand soared towards him, and Harry caught it. Although he hadn't gone in for Seeker after the war, those reflexes still came in handy. He watched calmly as her eyes rolled back in her head from the Stunner and the ropes coiled around her, and then turned to watch the shield form behind Ron's back and before his chest.

The shadow-creature roared in frustration, and a second cry came from the corner that the witch had lit on fire with her missed curse. Harry whirled that way and lifted his wand, calling, "_Ignis!_"

The fire that roared into the air between them was hotter than that conjured by a normal fire spell, and, more to the point, brighter. Spiraling points of light struck the shadow-creature like searchbeams. The creature screamed and rocked back on its heels, or whatever it was currently using in place of them. Harry moved forwards, bringing the fire with him, and the walls gleamed as if bathed by sunlight. The creature slumped to the floor, long necks stretching out for the cool shadows, melting hands reaching up as if to create a sunscreen for the sensitive eyes.

Harry halted in front of it, looked down, and waited until the coal-colored gaze caught his. Then he said pleasantly, "_Ignis magnopere._"

The flames lifted above his head and bloomed gently outwards, or at least as gently as a fireball was capable of. The heat that came down made Harry's hair sizzle, and he cast the protective charm that Ron would yell at him later for having forgotten. Ron already had the Shield Charm in place defending him, which caused Harry to think he'd made up for the mistake with himself.

Both shadow-creatures swayed back and forth, dripping like wax in the face of that intense light, and the fire moved forwards and consumed them. Harry stepped back and kept a close eye on the corners of the flames. Whenever a tentacle or something that wanted to be one tried to escape, he would kick it hard with one foot, launching it back into destruction.

"I think they're dead, mate."

Harry blinked and turned away from the fire somewhat reluctantly as it burned itself out at Ron's _Finite. _He liked seeing flames like that. It was so easy to picture Sandborn's face in the middle of them. "I think you're right," he said, and summoned his second soul to life behind his eyes. "Fancy spellwork there, throwing her off-balance."

Ron ducked his head. "You were the one who took her out," he muttered. "I didn't even see her aiming at me."

Harry grinned at him. "No reason you should, when you were busy battling what I thought was the last of her little toys," he said cheerfully. "Now, come on. I think that we'd better get her _and _our memories back to the Ministry as soon as possible. I haven't seen anything like those before." He let his voice dip, and Ron's face went grey as he thought about the possible implications.

"You don't think she was alone," he muttered, casting a Lightening Charm on the witch and lifting her.

Harry shook his head. "I could feel the magic in the second one before I roasted it. It didn't seem like her magical signature. Someone made them for her, or strengthened them after she made them. And I still don't know whether she summoned them, or constructed them, or wove shadows to take advantage of the fear in a victim's mind, or what. We need to find out."

"Oh, we will," Ron said grimly, and clutched a little harder at the witch's legs, as if she might tear herself away from them even though she was unconscious. Well, Harry had seen that happen, though usually only when the criminal had an ally hiding somewhere nearby. He didn't _sense _someone nearby, but that didn't mean it couldn't happen.

They stepped out of the room and into the half-destroyed front of the building, which a few minutes ago had been a nice little pub where wizarding families gathered before diving into Diagon Alley. Harry scanned the area around him by reflex, but sensed neither blood nor the magical signatures of the wounded. He relaxed. The other Aurors had got potential victims out of the way quickly, then.

No, wait...there was one magical signature. Harry turned towards it and lifted his wand just as Malfoy stepped around the cracked shards of wood that were the only remnants of the wall.

Ron had his wand aimed in Malfoy's direction sooner than Harry did, a nice demonstration of his ability to recover from surprise faster than Harry could. Harry grinned at him, a small expression that Ron acknowledged with a flicker of one eyelid, and then pointed his wand at Malfoy, as well. His mind was sorting and cataloguing details-the half-lounging way Malfoy stood, the position of his wand, the way he looked at Harry-trying to estimate how long he must have been here and whether he would have been helping the witch. She had mentioned backers in one of her taunting monologues, before Harry and Ron had rendered her too busy to talk. Could Malfoy be one of them?

"What are you _doing _here, Malfoy?" Ron asked in some disgust finally, when long moments had passed and Malfoy had just stood there, staring at them. No, Harry realized then. Staring at _him_.

Malfoy gave Ron a meaningless smile. "I had a message for Potter. I thought I might as well deliver it while you were both in a good mood." He turned to face Harry more fully. Harry toned down his smile and lifted his eyebrows to mimic the expression that Malfoy would have seen if he'd intruded on Harry in the Ministry.

"What's the message?" he asked. "If you want me to attend a party at your Manor, I'm afraid that I'm booked for the next month." He usually was. Sandborn's secretaries made the arrangements for that, and then sent him the schedule of functions he had to attend.

"I wanted to say that you should check the papers when you get home," Malfoy said. "It would do you good to see a story that wasn't about you for once." He turned, flicking his hair over his shoulder, and Disapparated. Ron made a disgusted sound. Harry nodded back at him.

Meanwhile, his mind raced quietly through the details of the last time he had seen Malfoy, looking for threats. Then he shook his head. The _Prophet _and its lesser rivals had been pleased with Harry since he'd started following Sandborn's schedule all those years ago. They wouldn't print a nasty rumor about him with the same relish that they would have when he was in Hogwarts.

"What was that all about?" Ron muttered.

"Nothing," Harry said resolutely, and reached out to take Ron's arm so he could Side-Along them. "Do you remember how many tentacles the beast you were fighting had? It could be important, but I can't remember if it was eight or nine."

Ron shook his head. "It kept changing. And I think it was mucking about with my head, too, or at least my senses. One time I was certain it was forty-nine, even though I _know _that I didn't have time to count, but..."

Harry let the soothing flow of Ron's words wash over him and erase the grimy lines it seemed Malfoy had etched on his skin. He began collecting the words of his next report together in his head, as well as the questions that he would suggest the Ministry officials ask the witch. He came up with a few more questions that he could take to the archives when he began to search for information on the shadow-creatures.

He distracted himself so thoroughly and efficiently that the headline about Jenna-Jane Rettern later that evening took him entirely by surprise.

* * *

"How can he be so _stupid_?"

Draco shook his head and let his legs relax against the high stool that Pansy inevitably gave him as a seat when he entered her kitchen. Pansy had her back to him, chopping furiously at the garlic on the cutting board in front of her. Draco shook his head again, but this time, it was his private Pansy-shake. She had house-elves to do that for her. Her insistence on attending to the finer details of cooking had never made sense to Draco.

_She has house-elves thanks to Potter._

For that matter, so did he. Draco studied his friend's back thoughtfully as she dropped the chopper and reached for a bowl to scrape the garlic into. Perhaps her reason for wanting to do the cooking tonight made more sense than usual.

"I don't know," Draco said. "But Astoria worked fast with Rettern. He ought to know now that we're serious."

Pansy turned around, absently casting Cleaning Charms on her hands to dry the juice. "He may think it's a coincidence. Seriously, Draco, I can't accept that anyone that _stupid _is an Auror."

"You know as well as I do that there are different kinds of intelligence," Draco murmured, caught up in studying her face. Pansy had been unfortunate-looking as a child, and then plain as an adolescent. Draco would never have predicted that she would grow into that most unusual sort of beauty as she aged: a tall woman with large dark eyes, an upturned nose instead of a snub one, blonde curls that required forceful taming, and an edge to her features that made him admire her while doing nothing for him sexually.

He had enjoyed his time with Astoria, no question, but the memories sometimes distracted him when they were talking. He was glad he had a female friend with whom that didn't happen.

"And none of them are the kind that let someone like Potter survive." Pansy planted her hands on her hips and spun more fully to face him, eyes so bright that Draco thought of the light glinting off Potter's spectacles. "Tell me, Draco. Why _should _I aid him? Yes, we owe him a debt, but I could let the rest of you pay that off, and it would still be just as gone. I don't know that I want to tarnish my good name by helping someone who's stubborn and won't recognize the truth when we hand it to him."

"I warned him, in the case of Rettern," Draco murmured, but he was thinking. Yes, he had forgotten that. Pansy had the same standards that the rest of them did, but she was more ruthless in her practicality. She would ignore the debt for years and then swoop in and rescue Potter from some embarrassing social transaction at the last moment or volunteer her house for the christening of his first child, then consider herself done. Draco wanted everyone involved because he thought he would need that much ballast to pull against Potter's unwilling weight.

And yet, if the weight was totally unwilling...

Why did _he _want to do it?

Draco smiled. Pansy took a step forwards, bracing her arms on either side of the stool, caging him. "You have something."

"Why, yes," Draco said, and blinked at her. "How do you think Potter has managed to keep this contract from everyone for years?"

Pansy nibbled on a curl and studied him. Draco preserved his "totally-not-tormenting-the-house-elves" stare that had worked so well from childhood, and Pansy said at last, "It was coincidence you found out. He must have defended it with lies for years."

"Exactly," Draco said, and nodded, and waited for her mind to catch up.

"Bloody fuck," Pansy said, which was another of the unladylike things she did, and which Draco had too much consideration for her to call her on. "He's a good liar. He has cunning." She looked into the distance, eyes so large that Draco wanted to press them shut. "He's a _Slytherin _kind of intelligent, without the standards of honor that we have."

"Exactly," Draco repeated, and smiled at her. "I should have known that you would recognize a kindred spirit in him when you thought about it long enough."

Pansy pushed him casually off the stool. Draco ducked to avoid banging his head on the table and stood up, smoothing out his shirt, which Pansy had nearly wrinkled. He watched Pansy, who was scowling into the distance and tapping one foot on the floor with a pace that would grow more frenzied as the minutes passed.

"So," she said at last.

"So?" Draco asked back, and raised his eyebrows.

"Astoria should have been the one to handle Callia, since the bitch is her cousin," Pansy said, wheeling around in place and pinning him with a bright glance. "Why did she go after Rettern instead?"

"Because we're concentrating on methods to preserve our own gains first, not stop Potter's marriage," Draco said. He let his confusion show. It mattered less when Pansy had just knocked him off the stool. She would probably think he had bumped his head after all.

"That's bollocks," said Pansy. "Attack from all directions at once, or Potter and Sandborn will find a way to stop it. Potter must have faced down dozens of smaller crises, each time his friends came close to finding out the truth. And he has nosy friends. They would have done it. Sandborn has his ways of defending information, too. I'll handle Callia."

"Not very well, if you call her a bitch to her face," Draco murmured. He would have been less doubtful, but he knew Pansy's tactics too well.

"I know her," Pansy said. "That means I know whereof I speak."

Draco nodded and let it go. He had come here to secure Pansy's help. How she chose to give it was up to her.

And anticipating a pleasant surprise would at least make a difference from the _un_pleasant one floating in his fireplace when he came home.

* * *

Harry read the article with a sharp disbelief that had no place in his home. He should have looked at the _Prophet _in the office, and ordinarily would have, but Ron had tossed the paper, along with his cloak, at him before herding him out the door to get some sleep, and he hadn't had the chance until now.

Scattered phrases jumped out at him. Along with the photo-a hard-smiling one of Jenna-Jane Rettern, no surprise since she looked like that in every picture Harry had ever seen of her-they were the important things.

_...convening the Wizengamot to look again into the chains of influence set up around the fall of You-Know-Who..._

_...forged records of non-existent pure-bloods supposedly related to the Malfoys..._

_...testimony of various high-ranking Ministry officials..._

_..."I'm afraid the papers I uncovered today show that there was a great deal more corruption around the beginning of Minister Sandborn's administration than was ever noticed," Rettern said in a conference with your reporter this afternoon, at which she announced the beginning of the investigation..._

Harry would have rolled his eyes without Malfoy's appearance this afternoon. Or, rather, he would have marked the article carefully for the political implications and then put it aside, neatly folded, and gone home, because his home was not a place where he thought about such things.

But now, he _had _to think about them.

His third soul was within him, surging hotly upwards before he could reconsider his actions, and he found the Floo powder between his fingertips without knowing how it got there. He shook his head, debated holding back and being sensible, and then threw it anyway. It landed in the fire with a sizzle, and he said, "Malfoy Manor," already tense with the knowledge that the call would be refused-why should Malfoy let him through?-and thus save him from his own stupidity.

The call resulted in a nervous, bowing house-elf rather than the blank wall image that it should have. Harry clenched his fists and whipped away from the fire. He had to pace off his energy. This was stupid.

"Potter. Hullo."

The sound of Malfoy's voice brought Harry back around, and once again seemed to leap through his nerves to his voice without involving his brain, rather as the article had. "What do you think you're _doing_?" he snarled.

Malfoy's smile grew more languid, and he sat down in front of the fireplace. He looked as though he was settling down to a long conversation.

And Harry was without the carefully-prepared mask of indifference and political knowledge that he had had the last times they'd talked.

His heartbeat clanged doom, but Malfoy had already said, "Yes, let's talk about that, shall we?" and the conversation began.


	4. An Evening to Change Everything

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Four-An Evening to Change Everything_

"I want you to tell me why you're doing this."

Potter had drawn himself up as though he was confronting Draco across the desk in an interrogation room. His eyes had pulled almost shut, and his nostrils were narrow and pinched. Draco shook his head. It was the prissiest he'd ever seen Potter be. He preferred the open, fiery gaze the other man had given him when he first appeared in the Floo.

Indeed, although he hadn't planned this conversation like he'd planned his other interferences in Potter's life of late, Draco found himself smiling. He leaned forwards and said softly, "You know why I'm doing this. I've explained the situation to you already. You understand everything about it. What you _can't _deal with is the idea that some people in your life won't simply leave you to the untender mercies of that bastard Sandborn."

Potter, being Potter, took that in the wrong way. His eyes widened again, and his hand dropped out of sight. "If you're implying that my friends know about this and want me to simply suffer, Malfoy-"

"Not at all," Draco said, and beamed at him. "Thank you for confirming something I was unsure of, however. I thought it _possible _that the people surrounding you are such Gryffindors that they might accept you selling yourself for a greater cause. But they don't, do they? They don't know. They aren't there to listen when you call yourself a whore. They don't know you do. They aren't there to watch you sign away your life and happiness, and Callia's life and happiness, not to mention their peace of mind if they ever found out-"

The fire flared and nearly went out. Potter's magic interfering with the Floo, Draco surmised a second after his heart leaped upwards. Impressive in one way, sloppy in another. By the time that they were Potter's age, most wizards had learned better control than he had.

Potter wrenched himself back under control with a twist of his neck that looked painful, and said, "There's nothing I want from you. You don't need to pay me back because you don't owe me a debt."

Draco let his smile vanish, his eyes narrow. "You're not the one who gets to decide that, Potter. I know you must be used to your position of judge and arbitrator, even _fate, _in the lives of your friends. Mr. Weasley doesn't know that you're the one responsible for obtaining that job for him, does he? He'll think it's the sheerest good luck, or his own merits." He leaned nearer, lowering his voice. "That's another thing you're taking from your friends, Potter: their ability to be confident in their own judgment. When they know, they'll need to spend time revising every decision and momentous event in their lives from the past seven years, wondering which they made on their own and which happened to them because of your interference. And, no doubt, _impeccable _good taste-"

The fire flared again, but Potter clamped down on his temper before Draco could say anything. His eyes were still raw, his teeth showing, and Draco hoped he could do something with that. However, Potter's voice sounded too smooth and cool for his liking. "You think these arguments are new to me, Malfoy? You think I haven't lain awake at night, asking myself the same things, asking myself how hurt they would be if they learned the truth? And I decided in the end that it didn't matter. I've made the decisions, and if I regret them now, I still have to live with them. I can give them the gifts I fought for, at least."

Draco shook his head. The last thing he wanted was for Potter to retreat to the comfortable, conscience-free perch he'd created for himself. "Things _can _change. We can give you your freedom back, and that, in turn, gives you the chance to change your mind." He paused and leaned forwards until, at least from his perspective on this side of the fire, his eyes were only a few inches away from Potter's. "Unless you're stupid enough to decide that you always do know best, and that your guilt means nothing."

"Do you have any idea why I began this?" Potter asked softly.

"No," Draco said, and tamped his voice flat, so as not to let out any of the revealing emotions. "Tell me."

* * *

Harry hesitated. He had expected Malfoy to taunt him or say that it didn't matter why he began this, what mattered was what he did _now_. For a moment, he wondered if it was a trap, if Malfoy would do something else to disrupt his life and the contract with the information Harry gave him.

Then Malfoy raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, and the skeptical look broke the reserves Harry was trying to keep in place. He snorted.

"I thought I was the all-conquering hero after the war," he said. "You would have laughed at how naive I was being, how stupid. I _was _stupid. I thought I only had to ask for something and I'd be granted it. When I told the Wizengamot about your mother saving me in the Forbidden Forest, I was stupid enough to believe that would actually protect her."

"Why didn't it?" Malfoy asked, and his voice was soft, sliding in around the edges of Harry's defenses, coaxing him along.

Harry paused again, but Malfoy's face was hard, and that gave him the courage to go ahead. "Because the Wizengamot was afraid of me. The whole bloody _Ministry _was afraid of me. I gave them what they wanted, and all they could think of was that I would use the power of my victory against them, change the wizarding world in undesirable ways. So they were determined to prevent me from making any real changes, and freeing people on my testimony would have been one."

Malfoy sighed a little. "But my mother-"

"Still spent time in Azkaban that she shouldn't have," Harry cut in harshly. He didn't want to think about the way Narcissa's face had looked when she heard her sentence. It was the thing that had really started him on the path of the contract, but Malfoy would bitch and laugh if he heard about it, and Harry saw no reason to tell him. "I knew the rest of you would be next, because Sandborn sat me down and explained it to me. He's-not like the rest. He still would have taken me down, but he wasn't afraid. He saw more profit in an alliance with me than working against me.

"And so that was it. An alliance, which meant that I did as he said and he did as I said. And I got what I asked for. I always have."

Malfoy buried his head in his hands. Harry stiffened in anticipation. Maybe he was so disgusted that he would shut down the Floo conversation. Harry had used that tactic once before, on an idealistic young reporter who had come close to the truth of the contract. She'd backed off because confronting what he really was would destroy all her stereotypes about him as a hero.

"Potter, you idiot," Malfoy said, voice hissing between his fingers like the winter wind. "Sandborn _manipulated _you. He made up the story about them being afraid of you, and that means-"

"No," Harry said, and his lips twitched violently. He didn't want to tell Malfoy this, either, but he had to make him _back off _and realize that he was lucky to be free and in control of his property. Why wasn't that enough for him? "Your mother's sentencing happened before that, despite all the witnesses, Death Eater and other, who could confirm that she really did lie for me. And I can use-Legilimency, sometimes, when the other person isn't expecting it. I looked into the minds of the Wizengamot members I could, and there was fear everywhere. Fear of me. It was like rolling in slime. They were more afraid of me than they were of Voldemort."

_That _had been the real tipping point, if he was honest with himself, even more than Narcissa's shocked and staring face, although that one made the better story. To know that he was a monster in their eyes, or could easily become a monster, that they saw the power of the mob at his beck and call, that they suspected him of wanting to rule the wizarding world...

It made Harry sick with despair just to think about combating that. And to think that they might be right. His fame was a weapon, one that other people could misuse if he didn't control it. The only other option that might have settled their fears was retreating from the wizarding world forever, and he wasn't about to do that.

"You realize that's nonsense."

Harry snapped his head up. He was grateful for Malfoy speaking just then, although of course he would never let the bastard know it. He had nearly sunk into his own thoughts and forgotten who was in front of him. He had nearly stopped remembering that he was talking about this because he wanted to show Malfoy why the contract was necessary.

He hadn't relived those memories in seven years. He should have known that dredging them up would cover him in much of the same stinking slime that he had felt when he stood in the Wizengamot's minds.

"It's what I saw," he said steadily. "I'm not a very skilled Legilimens, and so what I felt could have been exaggerated, but-"

"I _meant_," Malfoy said, grinding down on the word as if it had personally offended him, "that it's nonsense that they feared you. They _should _have been able to see what a noble, stupid Gryffindor you are, that you would have killed yourself before harming anyone else. And that's practically what you have done," he added, running his eyes over Harry as though he could see everything that mattered through a Floo connection. "Suppressed everything, made yourself into the one image they wouldn't fear. Who knew you were such a coward?"

This time, Harry controlled the instinctive leap forwards to defend himself that he wanted to make. Malfoy knew things about him now that no one else did. That didn't make him a friend or someone Harry could let down his guard in front of. He blinked a little and called up the first, antiseptic soul behind his eyes.

"Nonsense or not, it's what they believed," he said. "I could have worn myself out fighting them. In the meantime, you would have gone to Azkaban, my friends would have lost any chance at untroubled lives, the laws Hermione wanted wouldn't have passed, and your money and properties would have been distributed to other people. Scorn me all you like, Malfoy. You only know the world as it is, not as it would have been. I know both."

Malfoy's mouth twitched. "Arrogant as hell," he said succinctly. "Setting yourself up as the ultimate pivot point between universes. How can you know that? How can you know that the burden rested on your shoulders?"

"Because I made it so," Harry said. _Calm, calm. He's only trying to irritate you, and he's got too much out of you already. _"That might have been wrong. I'm prepared to bow to your definitions and accept that it was. But it's _what happened. _You can't change the past."

"You annoy me enough to make me regret that no Time-Turners survived." Malfoy's gaze lingered on him. "You still don't understand, do you, Potter? How arrogant this was, is? How angry your friends will be when they find out?"

"There, you're wrong," Harry said, and he was sure that he was right. His own words came out of a well of calmness at the center of him. "The first time I went to Sandborn and proposed the contract, he laughed at me. He asked why I thought that what I could offer was so bloody important, or whether I believed that he couldn't get along without me and outface the threat I represented. You could see by then that he was going to become Minister. No one else could take advantage of the chaos after the war the way he could."

"You sound as if you admire him." Malfoy's voice curled around him like smoke.

Harry smiled somewhere in the back of his mind, where his third soul lived when he wasn't using it. Let Malfoy become disgusted. The more he felt that emotion, the greater the chance that he would drop this and back away. Harry couldn't stress how much he wanted that to happen. "You should," he said. "He was the one who tamed the untamable Harry Potter. That's admirable, don't you think?"

Malfoy stared at him, but he couldn't hide the shifting of his shoulders or the swift glimpse of his tongue between his teeth. Harry cocked his head. "I'm arrogant. I know that. But I'm the one who proposed the contract. I'm the one who agreed to all the deals, and proposed more of them myself. I'm the one who's snaring a woman who doesn't know about this into a marriage that will be false at the bottom, even if she's willing to put up with that for the money and the public exposure. I've sold myself to the point where I don't remember what honesty feels like. I've fucked myself over, and done it well, for the sake of sparing my friends and even my enemies from a fear that might only be nonsensical, that might not have had the consequences for them I feared it would. You were right about me."

* * *

Draco felt the trembling impulse to shut the Floo connection and back away. Potter said everything without a flinch. He had no trace of standards left, no principles, no _intelligence, _not even the cunning that Draco had hinted to Pansy he must have to defend the truth from his friends and other inquirers. He was-

Someone who did have that cunning, Draco was sure of it, and moreover, someone who had spent the last seven years spinning the truth until it squeaked, convincing everyone who looked at him that he was the basic, boring Gryffindor hero, the Minister's boy-toy, the known quantity.

Draco leaned in until he could feel the heat of the flames on his nose. Potter looked at him, unmoving. No one held a still pose that naturally, Draco knew. He ought to have thought of the possibility of deception before. Potter wanted him to back away. What would he do but take actions that he thought he would ensure that?

And it had nearly worked, too.

Draco felt a stab of admiration, and let it show in his face because he knew it would confuse the fuck out of Potter. Sure enough, the big eyes blinked, and Potter shifted position, staring at him.

"Good try," Draco said softly. "Did Sandborn give you tips on how to do that, or was that something you came up with yourself?"

"I've always been honest," Potter said. "That was something you despised when we were in Hogwarts, I recall."

"You did this to yourself, yes," Draco said. "But what you did involved other people. That's what I keep trying to get you to see. If you don't have the right to make decisions for others, you also don't have the right to use them as excuses for staying in this wretched position."

Potter _snarled. _Draco saw the flex running through him, how his shoulders lifted nearly into hunching position, how his fingers curled down at his sides. Draco smiled back at him. He was the one who could make Golden Boy Potter lose control. He was the one who could make Potter think of something other than the chains he was wearing.

Merlin, he was good.

"I could go to Sandborn," Potter said. "Get him to promise to keep you away from me."

Draco laughed at him. "What else do you have to give up? And what would he think if you asked him for something so simple? Especially when you're trying to defend yourself from someone you've previously tried to _protect_?" God, he hated the idea that Potter would consider him a helpless child in need of shelter from the Wizengamot, and incapable of fighting for his own money. It made his voice sharpen, drove him higher on a potent Firewhisky of outrage and amusement. "He'll think it strange, and he might start looking into this further, Potter. He might do something to me."

Potter froze. That was the way to do it, Draco thought, turn back the chokechain of his own protectiveness on the bastard.

Then Potter shook his head and bounced back to the poised statue that Draco was beginning to hate. He did it by changing only a few of the muscles in his face and a few of the lines about his mouth. It would be impressive control if Draco was in the mood to be impressed by something like that. "I warn you, Malfoy," he said. "There's nothing you can do legally. The contract would hold up any scrutiny the Wizengamot could give it."

Draco smiled at him. "How convenient that you're dealing with Slytherins, who have never needed to limit themselves to legal methods."

"Seven years after Hogwarts, and you still define yourselves by your House?" Potter surveyed him the way that Draco's mother might have looked at a wet spot on the marble. "I wonder whether you're emotionally mature enough to help me even if I requested your aid."

About to respond in kind, Draco paused instead and listened. Potter could control his face better than he could his voice. The voice had a quiver in it.

Then Draco studied his eyes. And he hadn't put everything away perfectly after all. He had embers burning still, embers of the honest emotion that Draco had forced out of him. He looked at Draco fearlessly, so he must have thought they were concealed, but Draco looked long and deeply enough to see them.

Somewhere down under the surface, pinned perhaps but still existing, the Potter Draco had known was screaming. The fiery temper, the determination to survive, and, yes, the cunning that had let him hide his secret were still there. He wanted to be free. He would snatch at freedom if it was offered. The biggest problem was that he couldn't be persuaded that freedom was within reach, and he wouldn't make a move unless he knew that the gains he'd won from Sandborn would be preserved along with everything else.

_Convince me, _his body said.

"I'll try," Draco said.

Potter blinked, then chose to interpret those words in light of the last ones he'd spoken. He did have a rather bad case of believing himself at the center of the universe, Draco thought tolerantly. Of course, the last half a decade and more wouldn't have contributed to breaking that delusion. "Trying isn't enough," he said. "Not against the forces Sandborn can bring to bear. And as you've pointed out several times, I can't be worth saving."

"I've never said that," Draco said. "I think you are worth saving. The only thing I have to do is convince you, so that you'll fight on my side. When you fight for something you truly believe in, you're a powerhouse. I want that power behind me. I want you holding my back."

* * *

The words struck a spot Harry hadn't thought to defend.

Fighting for people, beside people, was what he _did. _He had changed his mind about becoming an Auror before he went to Sandborn, but he hadn't been able to think of another career that would let him struggle to defend others-and he had known that any contract he signed would be certain to require Auror training of him. It was the most convenient mold for a hero.

Malfoy was talking like there _was _something else he could do, defend and fight and be with people, and in a way that didn't involve being Ron's Auror partner. His mouth dried out, and he sat there, head shaking like a mindless puppet, his hands dangling uselessly because he could think of nothing to do with them.

"You're so unused to thinking of yourself as powerful that the mention takes you by surprise?" Malfoy braced himself on his knees and smiled at him. "It seems it does. I'll remember that for our future conversations."

Harry called back moisture into his mouth and rubbed his right temple, forcing his brain into motion again. He had suffered harder blows when he struggled with Dark wizards, and had risen back to his feet.

_But no blow from them ever had the potential to change my life._

"I'm powerful within the confines of the law," he said. "What I do would mean nothing without legal backing, without the authority that the Ministry grants to Aurors."

Malfoy gave him a sweet smile. "You've used guile to fight me so far," he said. "You also mentioned the influence that your heroic stature gives you with the papers and the public in general. You also used a spell on me the last time but one we saw each other. None of those are legal means, are they?"

Harry ground his teeth. "Malfoy." His third soul was surging up again. There was no other explanation for the sticky, bitter thoughts that filled his head.

"Consider, Potter," Malfoy said. "Do you think we're powerless? Too weak? Uninterested in helping you, although I've already told you we want to? Help me here. What is the main barrier?"

Harry met his eyes. Malfoy had a look in his face that Harry had seen before when he did something unexpected that startled Ron, as though Ron had to fit the new behavior into the pattern labeled "Harry" he carried in his mind.

That was why he did it, Harry thought later. Because Malfoy looked a lot like his best friend in that moment. Not for Malfoy himself, not _because _of Malfoy himself.

"I've tried to think about ways that I could change things in the past," he said. "Every night for six years. I've come up with nothing-nothing that would let me keep what I have, what you have, what my friends have, and let me keep my word."

Malfoy was on the edge of laughter, or so Harry thought from the light spilling into his eyes and his smile. "That's easily solved," he said. "We _can _think of ways, and keeping your word means nothing to us."

Harry stared flatly at him. "It does to me."

Malfoy shrugged with one shoulder. "I believe that the capacity of most people to resist temptation is grossly overestimated," he said. "If we lay out a path to freedom for you, and the only thing holding you back from following it is your word, then I believe you will."

Harry pushed himself back from the fire. He hated the way Malfoy's eyes followed him and _focused _on him, as if he were the most important thing in the world for just a moment.

"I'm right," Malfoy whispered. "I can see the fear in your eyes, and you would have no reason to fear that exact situation unless you thought that it would play out as I said it would."

"I didn't ask for your help," Harry said. "You don't owe me a debt. I'm the arrogant bastard that you said I was."

"Irrelevant," Malfoy said. "Stupid, because we have a different perspective on debts and we say we do." He pressed himself up against the hearth, and Harry stopped breathing. The only person who had looked that intently at him in the last few years was Sandborn, and Harry had defenses against him that the Minister would never penetrate, because he would never allow himself consciously to acknowledge his guilt.

Malfoy _understood, _and remaining upright in the face of his regard for Harry was like standing there while he swallowed fire.

"And tempting," Malfoy said softly, "because the temptation to make you eat your words adds its own fuel to my actions." He cracked an open smile this time. "I believe I've already told you what I think about temptation."

The fire, and Malfoy's image, went out. Harry wasn't sure if Malfoy had ended the Floo call or if his own flaring magic had.

And it didn't really matter, he told himself as he went to bed, because nothing would come of it. Nothing had changed. Malfoy might think he could do something, but Sandborn had defenses that-

Except his first soul, the public one, had no place in his home, and it blew away like smoke before the blue light of his truth.

And his hope.


	5. At the Turning Point

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Five—At the Turning Point_

"I know you're in there, Draco."

The assured voice came from right beside his bed, which ruled out Blaise, whom his wards didn't admit. And the soft, amused tone in the back of it ruled out Astoria. She rarely _showed _amusement when she was with him; it was assumed that he knew her well enough to know what she was feeling from slighter clues than that.

"Good morning, Daphne," Draco muttered into his pillow, and let himself turn over slowly. It wouldn't do to hurry and _confirm _Daphne's delusion that she was the center of the universe, or important in any other way.

She smiled at him when his eyes met hers. She looked as she always did, good enough to touch but not to fuck, sitting demurely on the edge of his bed in jeans and a red shirt that did interesting things for the shade of her skin and the curves of her breasts. Casual clothes, clothes that would let her move fast, which was so often an asset in her job. She wore her blonde hair clipped short, unlike Astoria's, and it had soft edges that Draco had wanted to run his hands through more than once. Her fingers had a few odd calluses and scars on them, but not ones the Ministry would notice unless it was specifically looking for her. And as Daphne had told him more than once, if they were specifically looking for her, than she had already fouled up the game beyond repair.

"How is La Vie Dangereuse, then?" he muttered.

"In hiding at the moment," Daphne said, and her smile widened a touch. "Of course, that only convinces the Ministry that she's planning something even more dastardly."

Draco laughed. Daphne swung one leg and reached out to squeeze his shoulder in response. "You're the only one who really understands," she said softly. "I did try to tell Astoria once, but she wouldn't believe it, and she certainly wouldn't have thought through the psychology behind it. It's better to let her believe that I'm her slightly dotty sister, and that's all."

_Instead of the thief who's stolen more money and artifacts from private owners than most of the others in the Continent and England combined, _Draco thought, and sat up. "Astoria got word to you about Potter?"

"She did." Daphne drew back from the bed so that he could reach his dressing gown and stand, and watched him with open appreciation as he did so. Draco preened a little under the attention. Daphne could have her pick of partners from all over the world, and Draco had never really _wanted _to sleep with her, but he knew how to be flattered that she would consider him worth a second look. "I thought I could use my unique talents to help him, perhaps."

"You'd have to be careful." Draco tied the dressing gown off and called a house-elf with a small tip of his hand. "Prepare a breakfast for me and my guest," he said. "Fresh fruit and bread only. I know that you have to watch your figure," he added, catching Daphne's gaze. "Those drainpipes can be tricky to negotiate."

"Well, I can be content if the Ministry comes asking you about me now, because it's completely obvious that you don't have a clue how I work," Daphne said, and looped her arm through his. "Is Potter still as glorious as he was in school?"

"Still just as much of a self-righteous prig, oh yes," Draco said, rolling his eyes as he led her to the table on the far side of his bedroom. "That's why I told you to be careful. He'll probably send the help back if he learns what you do."

"That would only happen if he's better than all the other Aurors who've chased and not caught me." Daphne took her seat on the edge of the chair, keeping her legs and hands in constant motion; from nowhere, she'd produced a ball and set it to spinning between her fingers, flexing them and curving them in new shapes. "But point taken. I reckon that I can think of something that will keep me busy helping him and yet not in any area where he could connect me with La Vie Dangereuse."

Draco nodded. "Good. We still need to work out a plan to preserve our freedom. Our money is one thing, and Pansy is working on a plan to stop Potter's marriage, but what will actually keep us out of Azkaban if he breaks the contract with Sandborn? I have to admit that that one has me puzzled."

Daphne paused, cocking her head. The ball fell unnoticed to the ground. Draco blinked. He'd never seen her do that before.

"Do you know many copies of the contract Potter keeps about him?" Daphne asked softly.

"I don't think he keeps any," Draco said, watching her raptly. Daphne had one of the more open faces among his friends, one that even someone like Potter might be able to read. He could see the thoughts traveling from one eye to the other like clouds on a swift wind. "Sandborn was the one who brought the pages he signed."

"Ummm." Daphne bent down and picked up the ball. "And I suspect that Sandborn protects the copies he does have carefully."

"Carefully enough?" Draco reached out and picked up the bowl of strawberries and chocolate that had just arrived on the table, munching his way delicately through the fresh, juicy ones on the top.

Daphne gave him a bright smile. "There's no such thing as carefully enough, not when someone's decided to steal something."

"Someone?"

Daphne clapped her hand to her chest and bowed over it. "Of course, one must give the commission to a person of some obvious talent."

* * *

"Are you all right, Harry? You look terrible."

He hadn't got much sleep last night, but he didn't show the signs of such things from his home to his friends. They got the second soul, not the third. Harry made himself look up at normal speed instead of showing how he _really _wanted to react to Ron's question. "Oh? What? Yes, I'm fine. A brief bout of vomiting last night. I shouldn't have eaten that last sandwich that Tom wanted to foist on me."

"Oh." Ron relaxed and leaned back on the desk, shaking his head. "I'm amazed that you had the energy to go on to the Leaky Cauldron after yesterday!"

"Oi! I was hungry." Harry noted that Ron was clutching the _Daily Prophet _and seized the chance. "You heard about the investigation that Rettern wants to launch into Sandborn?"

Ron snorted and threw the paper at him. Harry caught it and smoothed it out, reading snatches of the article from the corner of his eye, much as he had last night. It was a different article this time, but it didn't say anything new. Harry relaxed. He would have to keep up with them anyway, of course, to make sure that they got no real leads, but—

_Is that what you want?_

Malfoy's voice, which had been with him too much lately, hammered against the sides of his head. Harry swallowed and held the paper up in front of his face so that Ron wouldn't notice. Of course he didn't want Rettern's investigation into Sandborn to succeed. That would expose the contract, and expose him.

Of course he wanted the contract to last, and his association with Sandborn to last. It was unpleasant, but anything else would be worse.

Of course he did.

Hope didn't taste any better than the imaginary sandwich that had made him vomit.

"She's not going to find anything," Ron said matter-of-factly, standing up and pounding a fist into the small of his back to work out some kink. "Everyone knows that Sandborn's clean. He wouldn't have got this far if he'd been doing something shady."

_Unless he took precautions to keep anyone from finding out, _Harry thought. It sometimes made him impatient with his friends, they thought Sandborn was so pure and good. Didn't they recognize that that "purity" could also be the product of a good liar?

Well, no. They didn't. And their lack of suspicion was the greatest protection that Harry had, so he shouldn't be wishing they had more.

Unless he _had _decided that he wanted to fight alongside Malfoy and he should wish that Sandborn was less powerful and his friends more suspicious so that they could get ready to fight beside him, too.

Harry sighed and listened to Ron talk about Rettern's investigation. It was the received wisdom about Sandborn: that he had disdained corruption and graft because he had more efficient ways to get things done. Harry didn't disagree, but knowing how much he was the source of those "more efficient ways" somewhat tarnished them in his eyes.

"Harry? You paying attention, mate?"

Harry let his second soul take over so that he could make the right responses while he thought about Malfoy. How long would this obsession last? That was another question Harry should have asked last night and hadn't. Did Malfoy _really _think that he wanted to help enough to keep it going through the first obstacles? The longer the task took, Harry thought, the more likely the Slytherins were to fuck off and find something else to do.

He noticed abruptly that Ron had fallen silent, and looked up with a blink. Sandborn's personal secretary, Jade Kilworth, stood at his door. She looked at him with solemn dark eyes and raised one finger in a beckoning motion.

"Minister wants to see you," she said.

* * *

The problem with the protections that people put on their personal items, in Daphne's experience, was that they never considered a _serious _attempt to break in. They thought as far as locking charms and wards and then stopped.

But what if someone got past the charms and wards? Well, then some of them would have stationary hexes and bloodline locks and magical creatures as guards. But only some of them, and Daphne had learned how to deal with those, too.

Currently, she was hanging upside-down outside the window of Sandborn's home, waving her wand and chanting the spell that bored a small hole through the wards, all the while convincing them that she was supposed to be there. They could look through a dozen books and never find that charm, all the Aurors and Hit Wizards who had spent years trying to track her. It was one she had invented.

If you wanted something done right, in Daphne's experience, you had to do it yourself. In the most intimate of ways.

The wards finally sparked and fizzled in front of her, melting away enough that she could see the house's stone walls without their slight gauzy fuzz across her vision, and Daphne pushed her wand hand through the hole. Once the wand was inside them, beyond the fragile barrier, it was child's play to cast _Finite. _Daphne pushed her hair away from her face, let herself exhale once, and then swung upright on the rope holding her before all the blood rushing to her head could knock her unconscious.

She could have dangled upright before the window, perhaps, but she needed to avoid any damage to her hands, and she had found that it was ridiculously easy to disarm wards from this angle. Once again, no one thought seriously enough.

Sandborn had one of the popular personal complexes of wards, the kind that all hooked inwards to a central trigger. Daphne grunted to herself and shook her head. You'd think that a Minister who had managed wizarding England for this many years would be a serious thinker if anyone was.

Then she remembered what Draco had told her, and smiled. If that was true, then perhaps Sandborn had learned to depend too much on Potter's strength, and hadn't thought enough about maintaining his own. Anyone could get lazy.

The rope bounced. Daphne looked thoughtfully upwards. It shouldn't have done that. Perhaps Sandborn was smarter than he looked.

In one way, yes, she learned a minute later, as the silvery figure of a rat appeared on the edge of the roof, gnawing determinedly on her rope, its movements too fast and agile to be quite natural. In another way, no. The rat wasn't meant to check for intruders. Instead, it was the kind of magical construct that gnawed ivy and vines for people who wanted clean walls on their house.

It had nearly finished the rope. Daphne smiled, counted three under her breath, and then turned and cast the next spell as the rope dropped past her in heavy coils.

The air beneath her coalesced into a thick blue cushion and bore her up. Daphne crossed her legs and studied the charms that glittered around the window, incinerating the rope with a nonverbal spell as she thought about it.

Now, _this _was clever.

The window catch was sharp with silver spikes of power. Daphne whistled, and listened to the echoes that bounced back, nodding when they sounded like they were coming from the heavy walls of a round stone chamber. Yes, it was a spell that detected magical signatures. Someone might get away with opening the window, but they would carry away an invisible tracer with them. The spell even looked like an ordinary charm to prevent the window catch from lifting too easily, either because of opportunistic fingers or because of opportunistic winds.

Only the echo revealed its nature. Daphne nodded. The Minister was clever, yes.

Too bad for him that she was cleverer.

She hummed under her breath as she took out the ivory comb from her hair and held it towards the window. It glowed once, twice, and a sharp curl of blue flame came out of it. The flame slowly shaped itself into a reverse image of the silver spikes that the signature-tracking spell produced, as if it were a puzzle piece and Daphne was holding the one that locked into place with it.

She leaned forwards and swept the comb's flame down in a strong, precise motion. She had learned the hard way what happened when one hesitated too long with these.

The flames and the spikes of the spell coiled and locked together. The window buzzed and flared, a sound like mosquitoes beating themselves to death on the glass assaulting Daphne's ears. She reminded herself no one else could hear it and remained still, balancing on her air. A single glance down was enough to reassure her that the rope had completely burned and would leave no trace of her behind.

The flames buzzed one more time, and then the comb vanished, phasing out of existence quite quietly, compared to all the noise before. Daphne smiled as she watched it take the tracking spell with it. The rest of the magic on the window was ordinary, and she dealt with it quickly, then swung the window open and rearranged the cushion of air with her wand so that she could turn sideways and float in.

The room revealed was a study. Daphne looked around thoughtfully, noticing the charms that gleamed on every surface. Protection charms, tracking charms, copying charms, vision charms that would give the Minister the face of someone stepping into the room unexpectedly. Those only focused on the desk, however, and couldn't reach him at his office. Daphne discounted them and moved forwards, her eyelids fluttering shut.

This was the most exacting part of the business, at least when she went into the situation without knowing her client personally. Where would someone like Sandborn hide something like the contract? She wished she had taken the time to talk with Draco and spy on Potter, though that might have told her nothing.

Her fingers flexed as she thought of Sandborn's speeches, his infrequent smiles, and the way that he looked at Potter when the Gryffindor made speeches himself. She understood the pride and the anger behind his eyes now. Sandborn was someone who wouldn't like depending on another person to hold onto his power, however much he might acknowledge that it was a practical necessity.

Consumed with pride. Someone who didn't like Potter really, although he pretended to friendship on the surface. Someone whom vanity might whisper to, that he _could _have got that far on his own, if only the voters had seen him for who he really was.

Pride. Dislike. Vanity.

Daphne's eyes snapped open, and she moved with assured grace to the mirror on the far wall, a plain one in a gold frame that showed an eagle pinning a lion above the glass.

And yes, it opened when she tapped with her wand, in the fourth sequence she tried, and the compartment behind it was filled with the parchment sheets she had expected. Daphne smiled, collected them, rolled them neatly into a smaller packet that she could bind with a ribbon, and then cast a charm that would remove any traces she had left behind on the shelves of the compartment, including dead skin cells. She wouldn't take any chances. Sandborn had Muggle relatives; he might know about fingerprints.

She did leave something in the compartment, of course: the scroll of blank parchment that she had brought along with her in return. It would do no good if Sandborn didn't _know._

Leaving the house was an adventure, too, but one that was less challenging than the one she'd had so far, so Daphne didn't see a reason to include it in her report to Draco.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

Harry kept his voice calm and low as he stepped through the door of Sandborn's office. It was palatial, the space, but Harry knew that Sandborn kept it that way because it would impress the fuck out of people who thought they could intimidate him, such as reporters. Harry let his first soul hover behind his eyes as he gave his employer a meaningless smile.

"Yes," Sandborn said, and rose to his feet. As always when Harry was in the room, Sandborn's attention was focused on him and not anything else. "Please shut the door. We should have some privacy for our discussions."

Harry had no objection to that. He didn't exactly want anyone else intruding, either. But for long moments after the door had shut, he and Sandborn faced each other in silence. Harry regulated his breathing and waited for Sandborn to begin. This meeting could concern any number of things. Harry got his revenge where he could, in petty measures like waiting for Sandborn to begin something he wanted Harry's cooperation on.

Sandborn gave that little flick of his chin that he had when forced to yield and said, "Very well. I assume that you didn't encourage the investigation Rettern is making into the foundations of our financial system."

Harry could let his eyes widen and say with perfect truth, "Is she pushing it that far? I had thought she was only going to investigate the people who would have benefited from Death Eater money immediately after the war."

Sandborn started to answer, and then shut his mouth and studied Harry. A moment later, he said, "You didn't answer the question."

"Was there a question?"

Sandborn's eyes were bright and chill at the same time, but he wore his usual smile, one that shone so much most people didn't notice the eyes. "You know bloody well there was one implied, Potter. Answer it."

Harry shook his head. "No. I haven't had any contact with Rettern for years. She's despised me since she saw me following you, because she hates you."

Sandborn watched him with more questions in his face, but Harry stood his ground. Sandborn kept closer track of his movements than anyone else. He would have realized that the time for Harry to have a private interview with Rettern was nonexistent, unless he did it out of his home, and Harry never let work follow him there.

That gave him an unpleasant jolt when he thought about Malfoy. _If my conversation with him wasn't work, what was it?_

"That's true, at least," Sandborn said. He turned away and tapped a finger against the desk for a moment. Harry watched the reflection of the finger bobbing up and down. The desk was either made of obsidian or something close to it, since it reflected their faces so well.

"Does it matter?" Harry asked. His voice was his politician's voice, polite and calm. "She can't bring us down. She can't find all the secrets that you may have laid away. It's nothing."

"It's—a bad time," Sandborn said, his shoulders dropping a little. Harry still didn't think he could read people well, but Sandborn was a special exception, since he had so often depended on the Minister for so many things. "The investigation won't find anything, but it could stir up the water, and people could start asking _other _questions."

Which meant he hadn't relaxed because the investigation was nothing, but because of the pleasure he felt whenever Harry showed interest in their business dealings beyond what the contract demanded of him.

Harry had offered emotional closeness before, mostly in public, when Sandborn requested it of him. He felt for the Minister, in reality, a great and churning mixture of hatred and indifference that wouldn't cool down into liking, although Sandborn sure wished it would. If Harry liked him, then he could pretend they had something like friendship between them, instead of just the contract.

But this was different. Sandborn had never seemed _relieved _because of it.

Something about this was new. Rettern's investigation would change things, if Harry could find the weak point and apply leverage. He didn't know how he would do that yet, but he did know that it was possible.

His belly tightened. He thought of Malfoy's face floating in fire, the certainty in his voice when he said that the Slytherins owed Harry a debt and they would find some way to pay it.

No, they wouldn't. That reverse certainty had kept Harry from rebelling, that and the conviction that he couldn't break his word without worse consequences following. And Sandborn trusted him because he trusted Harry's word. It was all part of a long, complicated chain of emotions and vows and conditions that bound Harry to the Minister.

But if Sandborn was concentrating on something other than watching Harry at the moment, then it might be possible—

It might be—

Harry hadn't realized how intense his longing for freedom had grown until he thought of his own pledged word with a cool, impatient contempt.

He would break for freedom if he had the chance. And he would use the Slytherins' help, because he knew he couldn't outface Sandborn by himself. The moment the man offered a threat to one of his friends, then Harry would fold. That was the way it was.

"All right," he said aloud. "What do you want me to do towards countering the investigation, sir?"

Sandborn started talking about public speeches, mentions of confidence in the Ministry, interviews he wanted Harry to give. Harry listened more closely to the instructions than he ever had before. They had been part of his life up to that point, something hateful but inevitable, rather like Potions homework.

Now…

Now they were the possible clues to figuring out what was troubling Sandborn and using that to his own advantage.

Hope breathed through him, and spoke in Malfoy's voice.


	6. Life in a Few Moments

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Six—Life in a Few Moments_

Draco spent the evening reading through the contract Daphne had stolen. He was fascinated, he had to admit, especially by the graceful legal turns of the language. He had assumed that Sandborn relied on one of his secretaries to write speeches for him, as most of the Ministers had down the centuries, but based on this, it might be possible that he was writing them himself. Or at least he knew expert advice when he saw it, and took it from several people rather than one.

He was also appalled.

Every gain that Potter could think of, every gift he could give his friends, every action he could take to make the world better, was laid out here. The words churned past Draco's eyes, and several times he had to fetch the legal books that his ancestors had left behind in his library so he could confirm some of the terms and syntax. But yes, it seemed as though Potter had signed himself over to be a virtual slave so that he could win—

What?

Oh, yes, some of the gains were worth the sacrifice, Draco had to admit. If Potter had told him seven years ago that he'd intended to sign himself into the Auror program and to become a Ministry spokesman so that Draco and his friends could have their freedom and their money, Draco would have urged him to do it. After all, he'd thought that Potter wanted to be an Auror anyway. And the Ministry wouldn't let a hero like Potter remain outside their orbit for long. Potter would have found himself plagued with requests to speak if he hadn't agreed to it. The agreement was the adult thing to do, in Draco's eyes.

But the law to prevent physical abuse of house-elves? Draco was sure Granger could have achieved that on her own, if she wanted.

The guarantee that the Ministry wouldn't prosecute George Weasley for the disastrous failure of several of the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes that had injured the children who'd bought them? Draco understood that Potter wanted to protect one of his friends, but he should have stood aside in this case. Weasley had deserved at least a short term in prison or a large fine, if not Azkaban.

The passing of legislation that meant Hogwarts would remain free of Ministry control forever? Draco snorted and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. Few Ministers had wanted dominion over the school anyway. Sandborn had surely never been interested in it. Fudge and his predecessors were an exception because they feared Dumbledore. He was gone now, and Draco suspected there would never be a Headmaster as powerful, which meant that Hogwarts could go back to the tertiary place it was always meant to occupy as a source of influence, behind the Ministry and the powerful families.

Draco folded up the contract at last and put it aside. His hands ached as if with cold, and he had to hold them out to the fire and then call for a mug of hot mulled cider before he could get rid of the chill.

Potter was an idiot. All that magical power, all that political power, all that power of recognition and people who would trust him—he really _could _have reshaped the world after the war, as the Wizengamot and Sandborn had feared. Instead, he'd let cowardice cow him. He'd wanted desperately to fit into the wizarding world, and he'd been willing to give up everything to ensure that he would.

Draco narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. That was another factor in the sea of chaos bobbing around him. What had made that fear so different from everything else for Potter?

He remembered Potter's words from the conversation with him last night perfectly well—that it had been like rolling in slime to read the Wizengamot's fear of him—but that didn't perfectly explain his answering fear.

_That's the next thing I'll ask him, _Draco decided cheerfully, and then went to bed.

* * *

"Come in, Harry!"

Harry opened the door cautiously. At any moment there was likely to be something flying through this particular room in Ginny and Luna's house, either small and determined animals or the fumes of some experimental potion.

But it seemed he had arrived during one of those rare stretches of time when nothing was aloft. The main room was empty of anyone, in fact, allowing Harry to admire the deep greens that Luna favored in her decoration. Climbing plants draped the walls and the windowsills in a riot of life that meant all sign of their original pots was lost. The furniture, small cushiony islands in the middle of the greenery, shone blue and red and black. Harry shook his head at the clash and moved forwards, stepping cautiously around leaves and vines that reached curiously for his ankles.

A shape darted towards him, and Harry reached for his wand, but it landed on his shoulder and cheeped at him. It was a tiny winged unicorn, Harry saw, with huge faceted eyes like an insect's, and a voice like a bird's. It rubbed its horn against his cheek. Bemused, Harry petted it in the middle of a back. It flopped down like a cat. Harry shook his head.

"Is this one of those creatures you're trying to invent to be pets?" he called. "It can't decide what it wants to be."

"Did he get loose?" Luna appeared in the entrance of the kitchen, wiping her hands free of what looked like heavy green mulch on her apron. "_Bad _Tomasino!"

Luna was taller than she had been in Hogwarts by a considerable margin, challenging Ron, in fact, and sometimes making Harry feel inferior. Her blonde hair was twisted back in a bun—it usually was, when it wasn't cut short or singed because of some accident in the labs—and her glasses were pushed back on top of it. She smiled at Harry, and then frowned at the unicorn and held out her hand. "You come here right now," she said.

Tomasino drooped his way across the air to her palm. Luna cradled him there and made a cheeping noise herself that Harry assumed was a scold of some kind. Tomasino kicked up his crystalline hooves and turned his tiny back on her.

"Unicorns," Luna told Harry. "He's out of sorts because the chernals were chasing him this morning." She turned back into the kitchen again. "Come and have a cup of tea. We've improved the taste."

"Chernals?" Harry asked, ducking the sway of some hanging moss above the doorway into the kitchen. It sniffed at his hair. Harry shuddered. He honestly would have preferred it if it had just caught at him. These creatures Luna and Ginny bred that were half-animal and half-plant always creeped him out the most.

"The spirits of dustmops," Luna told him. She stood near the large table that took up most of the kitchen, which was made of glittering blue tiles bright enough to see reflections in. Harry avoided the sight of his face as much as he could. He'd had enough of mirrors lately. "What kind of tea do you want? Raspberry or vinegar?"

"Um," Harry said. The last tea he'd had here had given him hallucinations for two days, but turning it down was never a good idea, not when that would upset Ginny. "I don't really need any, Luna. It's fine."

"The vinegar it is, then," Luna said, with the sensation she often gave him of conducting a completely different conversation with the Harry who lived in her head, and pushed a single shining cup across the table to him. Harry sighed and pretended to sip at it. That was something he had lots of practice at from Ministry functions, at least.

Luna sat down at the table, Tomasino on her shoulder now and seeming to have forgotten his sulk, and folded her hands in front of her as she regarded him earnestly. "Now, what is it?"

Harry hesitated. He still had to make sure that he told Ginny and Luna the truth without revealing the truth of Sandborn and the contract. On the other hand, they were probably the only ones among his friends he could have done that with, because they weren't demanding and they wouldn't want to know all the answers right away, the way Ron and Hermione would. It was why he had come to them in the first place.

"Ginny?"

Harry turned, glad for the momentary distraction. Ginny had appeared from the lab, waving away the fumes that entered the room with her. They were thick and green, making Harry wonder about the potion she'd been brewing, but he knew he wouldn't understand what was going on even if Ginny and Luna tried to explain it to him. He had always been useless with Potions theory.

Ginny was taller, too, and she had her red hair tied back with a slender ribbon, as it was most days. She moved over to Luna and bent down to kiss her cheek. Tomasino reared on his hind legs to get kissed, too, and Ginny took him away from Luna, smiling. "He shat on your shoulder again," she mentioned.

Luna didn't even reach up to touch it. "It will come out in the wash," she said serenely. "We designed them for that," she added to Harry.

Ginny dropped into the chair beside Luna and gave her a much more thorough kiss. Harry cleared his throat and looked at the door from the Potions lab, making sure it wasn't open. Swallow some of the fumes from their brewing experiments that brought new miniature animals to life or created healing veterinary potions, and he'd have worse problems than a few days of hallucinations.

"Harry is here because he needs help," Luna said seriously when she pulled away, and pulled Harry's attention back to her. "But he hasn't told me what kind of help he needs yet."

Harry blinked at her. "How do you know that?" he asked, although he realized that he might as well have saved his breath. He had given up years ago on trying to find out how Luna knew what she knew.

"You only come here when you want help," Luna said.

Harry winced. And then sometimes Luna, normally so vague and sweet, came out with one of those diamond-bright thrusts like a needle made of light.

"Not always," Ginny said, but she was watching him keenly. "What is it, Harry? It's not something that happened to my brother, is it?" But she didn't sound as concerned as she probably should have been, Harry thought. On the other hand, she had to know that he would have reported damage to Ron immediately, especially since he was Ron's Auror partner.

Harry took a deep breath. He had settled on what to tell them. He only hoped that it would make sense without the surrounding context, and that Ginny wouldn't ask for too many details.

"Say that a bunch of Slytherins found out that they owed you a debt," he said. "Not a debt that _you _think they owe, but you know what Slytherin honor is." Ginny snorted; Luna gave him a dreamy smile. "They want to pay you back. Unfortunately, you can't tell them what they should give you. What they're offering has a _marginal _chance of making your life better, but a much better one of twisting it up and down and sideways and rupturing some of your dearest friendships. Would you take their aid?"

"Fuck, _no,_" Ginny said, clapping her hand down hard in the middle of the table. With gratitude, Harry watched his tea spill. "I don't care what they have to offer me. My friendships are important to me. They're based on honesty and genuine good feeling, and that's something Slytherins have no chance of understanding."

Harry winced, but hoped he kept it away from their observation. "Honesty," he said. "Right."

"I would accept it," Luna said. "The help. The debt. What they said. All of it."

Ginny turned and gaped at her. Harry leaned back in his chair. Luna's advice was the advice he had come for, but he had expected that she and Ginny would think pretty much the same. It seemed they'd never discussed Slytherins before, though, if the way Ginny leaned towards her was any indication.

"Why would you?" Harry asked, because he thought it was the right question to ask. Luna seemed to be in one of her saner and more forthcoming moods. He would be an idiot not to take advantage of it.

"Because they wanted to help me," Luna said simply. "And because so few people have ever wanted to help me."

Ginny's hand tightened on Luna's shoulder, and she exchanged a sharp glance with Harry. Harry wondered if she was thinking of the same picture that he was, the image of Luna standing there with a sign in her hands that listed her missing belongings, and how she would never, ever, think of those missing things the same way anyone else would.

"All right, fine," Harry said. "But what if the thing they told you that they owed you a debt for—it wasn't _about _them? It was some collective Slytherin delusion? And the help has the chance to make your life worse, remember."

Luna laughed, a clear sound that made Ginny start and look at her in wonder. Harry suddenly and rather violently wished that Ron could be here. He had complained before that he didn't understand how Ginny and Luna had fallen in love. The look on Ginny's face at that moment would have enlightened him.

"Everything has the potential to change you like that, Harry," Luna said. "The moment you walk down your front steps could be the moment you trip and sustain a head injury that would do you brain damage, or it could be the one that would break you of some sorrow that's always consumed you because you see someone you presumed dead coming towards you." She smiled, leaning out and patting Harry's hand. "I know that you think only _certain _moments can be like that. You've had so many of them. But every breath of every day is like that. You just have to let it be."

Harry shook his head. The answer was the one he had come here hoping—and fearing—to find. He pressed Luna's hand back, but pulled away before Ginny could read anything into it. She was rather jealous, sometimes. "Thank you," he said, quietly. "I'm going to remember that, and I'm going to let this change me, I think."

Ginny gave him a long, level glance. "What do you mean, Harry?" she asked. "How hypothetical is this situation?"

"I can't tell you that yet," Harry said, and stood up. He knew he was running away, but he didn't see that he had any choice. He couldn't let his friends interfere with what the Slytherins were doing, not yet, and he wasn't ready to have the conversations that would justify their interference. "Please, Gin, don't go tell anyone else," he added when she opened her mouth. "This is something I have to think about for myself right now."

They had been lovers, once, and were still good friends. Ginny studied him, blew out her breath hard, and then leaned back against the wall and shook her head. One of her hands brushed through Luna's hair in what looked like a self-soothing rhythm. "Fine," she said. "But I think that you should come to us and tell us the _instant _that things change."

Harry nodded back and escaped, ignoring Luna's calls that he hadn't finished his tea, and did he want some more?

* * *

"What a surprise," Callia Greengrass said, turning around in the middle of the aisle at Flourish and Blott's and regarding Pansy with such a perfect mask that Pansy couldn't tell whether the bitch was surprised or not.

Then again, it didn't matter what she fucking thought. Pansy gave back a smile as meaningless as her mask and reached past her so that she could pull a heavy grimoire from the shelf. Callia's eyes followed the path of Pansy's hand in spite of herself, and then she stepped out of the way, managing to disguise it as a gesture that would give Pansy more room to do what she wanted.

"I don't see why," Pansy replied, flipping the book open and letting her eyes read the title page. She had this same book at home, but the author had written a new introduction, as he tended to do every few years instead of actually updating the book. Pansy read a few lines of pretentious nonsense before she looked up at Callia. "Anyone can be in a bookshop and wish to peruse the wares."

"I saw you following me before that." Callia's eyes darkened and narrowed. She didn't have her cousins' ability to keep her face under control.

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "You're mistaken. I Apparated into being outside the shop just a moment ago. Some of us are able to spend our mornings in bed." What she said was absolutely true, which meant that the small blots of sudden color in Callia's cheeks came from the truth. Pansy gave her a stretched, slow smile and went back to reading the introduction.

This time, Callia let her get to the second paragraph before interrupting. "If you mean to have him yourself," she said in a low, quick voice, "then you can't."

"Have him?" Pansy looked up again. "I assure you, I have my husband every morning and twice on Sundays. It's a bit rich for you to tell me that I can't."

"I mean Harry. Of course." Callia folded her arms and took a step away, her gown rustling around her. It looked far too rich for her to have afforded on her own, Pansy thought critically. Borrowed money, of course. It didn't suit her, making her face look even more like dog shit than normal and her green eyes like scum growing on the surface of a pond. "I'm going to be married to him. He's proposed already."

"Then you should be consumed with happiness, and unable to consider me a rival, anyway," Pansy informed her in a bored tone, and went back to looking at the book.

"You would take him from me if you could," Callia said. "I've seen the way that you look at him when you come to Ministry functions."

Pansy burst out laughing. She could afford to do so. When she went to Ministry parties, which was rare, she spent the night talking with Draco and seeing how close she could make Theo come to coming in his pants. And if heads turned in the bookshop at the sound of her laughter, wondering what they were talking about, Callia had far more to lose from public notice than Pansy did.

Callia knew it, too. Her nostrils flared, her hands smoothed up and down her skirts, and she flushed before she turned her head away. "You must know that plenty of women would kill to marry him," she said.

"Of course," Pansy said. "But not a pure-blood woman who's already married and who's heard about that taint in his family." Then she paused and busied herself with the book, as though she hadn't meant to say that last.

"His Mudblood mother?" Callia tossed her head, making the blonde curls dance. "I know all about that already. And he's certainly powerful and wealthy enough for a half-blood. They _do _say certain things about hybrid vigor, you know." She gave Pansy a look that indicated she'd thought she'd won.

"Oh," Pansy said. "So you _haven't _heard about it. Well, of course, no one would want to advertise it, and it's not as though he has any family around who could contradict his careful public presentation of himself." She put the book back on the shelf and shrugged. "But you must have decided that it's worth the risks, including threats from jealous women." She turned and started to walk out of the aisle.

"What?"

Pansy glanced over her shoulder. Callia was standing with her lips pressed together, as though she regretted calling after Pansy. But her eyes had the glitter of someone poisoned by curiosity.

"It's not important," Pansy said. "You've already committed to marrying him, and I'm sure that someone like yourself would never back away from your given word."

Callia's eyes narrowed, and for a moment Pansy thought that she would pull her wand; her hand had dropped to her side as if she would do so. A moment later, she shook her head. "I don't believe you," she said. "Not _really. _There's always someone willing to spread rumors about Harry, and my marriage to him will make me a target, too. I've accepted that as a worthy sacrifice for marrying him."

"I'm sure," Pansy said. "Too bad that this would come as a threat from the inside, not the outside."

She turned away again and kept walking. This time, she counted three heartbeats before Callia came after her. She was mildly impressed. The woman had more self-control than she would have thought.

Callia grabbed her arm and dragged her into another aisle. Several people nearby gave them suspicious looks, but Pansy smiled and shrugged, and they turned back to their browsing, apparently not inclined to interfere.

"You'll explain what you mean," Callia said, and her wand dug into Pansy's throat. "I don't know what you intend by threatening me and walking away, but I won't let you intimidate me, _or _keep me from marrying Harry."

Pansy sighed. "Ask him yourself. I really ought to have let you do that, not come between you and him like that. I'm sorry."

Callia's fingers slipped on the wand. "He hasn't mentioned anything," she whispered. "What is it?"

Pansy sighed again. "Fine. But you'll have to remember that the Potters managed to destroy and alter some of the records. They didn't want this getting out when there were still enough of them around to be a viable pure-blood family."

"Assume I understand that," Callia said tersely. "Go on."

"It's a genetic defect," Pansy said. "They interbred too much in the years before they started accepting Mudbloods as wives. Did you ever think about why they did that, in fact? There was no reason they couldn't have found brides among their own kind. But they seemed to think that it was imperative to have outside blood."

Callia again had a good mask, but Pansy could follow the progress of her thoughts, because she had put them there. All pure-bloods were interbred to some extent. If the Potters had smashed into one nasty result of that intermarrying, they would have had a powerful motive to look outside the immediately relevant bloodlines and become tolerant.

"If you're going to say that they produce a high number of Squibs," Callia said, with something approximating bravery, "I won't believe you. Harry's too powerful to have children like that."

"With a Mudblood, oh yes," Pansy said. "But not powerful enough to prevent his children from turning to stone in the womb. And the bride with them, usually. That's why the _sons _of the family tended to survive." She'd spent some time the night before studying Potter genealogical records to make sure her lie would work, and there was a preponderance of only sons in the Potter line, or their female children dying young.

Callia looked as if she might not have the strength to stand. Pansy gently pushed her wand back, patted her on the cheek, whispered, "Ask him," and left.

Potter would deny it, of course. And Callia might believe him.

For a while.

It was why Pansy had more than one deception up her sleeve, and why she was glad that Draco had asked her to help. There was little she enjoyed more than tricking people so stupid she wondered how they managed to breathe. After all, give their brains enough to think about and their lungs might stop from the effort.


	7. A Lifetime's Courage

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Seven—A Lifetime's Courage_

Harry stared into the fire at his house and swallowed. He didn't like bringing work home with him, no, but he had little choice when the work practically swarmed up his shoulder and shouted in his ear like a hungry dragon hatchling.

How did one write a letter to someone like Malfoy acknowledging that he had been right all along and asking for his helping without sounding like he was begging? Harry didn't know much about Malfoy; he had stayed out of trouble, which kept him from crossing Harry's path in the most obvious way, and he rarely attended the Ministry galas without a cloud of his friends around him, which kept Harry away in the physical sense. But he didn't think it would be a good idea to grovel. Malfoy had enough pride for both of them tucked up in his arrogant head.

Harry finally sighed and pulled a sheet of parchment towards him. He would state the truth in the simplest language he knew, and hope that Malfoy couldn't find a purchase in the words to either gloat or brag.

Someone knocked on his door. Harry reacted instinctively, throwing a book that lay on the table over the piece of parchment even though he hadn't written anything yet and turning to pick up his outer robe, which he hadn't Transfigured into pyjamas for the evening, from the back of his chair. He closed his eyes and summoned his first soul to the surface.

"Harry," said the voice behind his door.

Harry recognized it, of course. He hesitated, wondering if he should change the soul he wore back to the second one, and then shook his head. Not this late in the evening. He stepped across the drawing room and opened the door for Callia.

She ducked in out of the rain at once, shivering. Harry cast Warming Charms for her with one hand as he shut the door with the other. Callia kept her head bowed, the wetness making its way slowly down the back of her neck and to the tips of her golden hair. Yes, the first soul had been the right choice, Harry decided. It let him view her wetness and dishevelment from a gentle, judging distance, and didn't involve him in any intimacy.

"What brings you here?" he asked.

His tone made Callia straighten and push her hair out of her eyes, arranging it behind her ears. "I couldn't simply have missed my fiancé and wanted to visit?" she murmured, leaning forwards to accept a kiss.

Harry offered it to her. His lips were as cold as hers, at least if the way she nodded as she stepped away from him was any indication. She didn't like him to show too much passion.

"Not this time of night," he said, vocalizing one of his own thoughts aloud, and took off her cloak, casting a few Drying Charms on it before he hung it up on a hook. He tried to think of the hook beneath his hands as something separated from him, divorced from him, rather than a possession that she was seeing and touching and had no right to. He had always known that the day had to come when he allowed Callia some access to the home that had been his fortress for so long.

_But does it have to come, now?_

Harry paused. He hadn't even thought of that. The moment Callia had shown up, his mind had slid back into the defensive role it always took when it came to the implements of his future. He had forgotten about Malfoy's help and the fact that he might find some way out of this situation, which included finding some way out of the marriage.

He shook his head sharply a moment later. This wouldn't help him. Among other things, there was no way that he could stand here with the cacophony of souls, and desires and dreams and wishes that belonged to different souls, in his head, and hope that Callia wouldn't notice. Harry was too used to operating on different wavelengths, knowing that all the thoughts from his first two souls were subject to questioning and sharing.

He turned around, first soul firmly in place, and gave Callia a meaningless smile as she sat down on the couch. "Is one of your family ill?" he asked. That had been the first reason he had thought she might seek him out on an evening like this, so that they could discuss pushing back or changing the wedding plans.

"No." Callia linked her hands together. He had given her a ring the other day, slim and made of platinum that twirled and coiled back on itself, holding a topaz in the middle. She spun it around on her finger now, and Harry blinked, thoughts from other thirds of himself surfacing. He had never seen her make such a gesture before.

She glanced up, caught his eye, and seemed to realize the picture she presented. She cleared her throat self-consciously and leaned back in her seat. "It's only that I heard a disturbing rumor about your blood heritage," she said. "And I wanted to know if it was true by going to the source."

_More of your help, Malfoy? _Harry didn't try to keep his shoulders from tensing. Callia, like most pure-bloods, was good at reading body language, because the bastards communicated so little with their actual _voices. _She would just think, with any luck, that his tension came from the fact that someone was spreading a rumor about him. He sat down on the couch across from her and reached for her hands. "Who from? And what was the rumor?"

Callia held his hands and looked searchingly back at him. Harry tried to smile. It wasn't that she was ugly, or stupid. Her face had the perfect, sculpted cheekbones that he had seen in the face of Astoria Greengrass when she appeared in public. Her hair was soft spun gold, her eyes wide and green as summer fields. And she had been able to figure out fairly soon that he didn't obey every request Sandborn made of him. She had let him know that a little quiet rebellion against the Ministry was all right with her, and they had gone on comfortably, peacefully, ever since.

Sandborn had introduced her to Harry in the first place because he had known without asking that Harry needed an anchor of some kind, someone he could talk to at formal functions when his friends weren't there, or when he was tired of the effort of fooling his friends. Harry thought Sandborn was related to Callia somehow, or had once done a favor for her family. It didn't really matter. Callia knew about everything except the contract, and they had agreed that they would marry.

Harry had been content, because there was nothing else for him to be. Now, he had to bite his lip as his heart banged and rattled in his chest.

_You can't think about that. Not now. This information you're going to get from Callia could be important. _Harry shut down the thoughts of his third soul with an effort, and waited.

"I heard it from Pansy Parkinson," Callia said. "Pansy Nott, to give her married name. I am unsure how often she uses that," she added, frowning slightly, as if a potentially mistaken bit of etiquette was the only thing that needed to concern them right now. "She told me that you carried a genetic flaw in your line that killed the daughters of your family in pregnancy, as well as the women the sons married, by turning the children to stone in their wombs, and then their entire bodies. Is that true?"

Harry stared at her in shock. He hadn't known that Malfoy meant it when he said a group of Slytherins owed him debts. Harry had paid for Pansy's freedom as much as anyone else's, but from what Harry could tell, she wouldn't feel she owed an Auror for saving her life, never mind anything else.

And that she would spread that rumor, of all things, one of the most ridiculous and over-the-top magical theories Harry had ever heard…

"It's not true," he said, before he could even think about it. Well, he was going to accept Malfoy's help—not that he could think about that with Callia around, not that he _wanted _to think about it—but not by means of a rumor that had terrified Callia and would probably do horrible things to his chances of marriage after this if it was allowed to circulate. Harry did know that he wanted to get married and have children someday. Not with Callia, ideally, but with someone. And he could _not think about this. _He bit down on his tongue hard enough to make it bleed and smiled apologetically at Callia. "I don't know where she would have heard that. Perhaps she's jealous of you."

Callia looked away from him, her eyes falling for a moment, even as her grip on his hands redoubled. "She's never seemed jealous," she murmured. "And I spent today looking at the publicly-available records. There are a lot of only Potter sons, and a lot of Potter daughters dead in childbirth or while pregnant."

Harry paused. He had never known that. Why had he never known that? He tried to remember the last time he had felt the urge to look up information about his family, or do something concerning them, other than look at his photo album or visit his parents' graves, and couldn't.

"I don't know why that would be," he said at last. "Just a natural run of bad luck, I suppose. But it doesn't have anything to do with that rumor. I think Parkinson—Nott—whatever her name is—probably wants to prevent you from getting married."

"From marrying you, specifically?" Callia toyed with the edge of his sleeve. "Or just in general?"

"It could be in general," Harry said. He was thinking about it again, as much as he dared, in flickering surges under his surface thoughts, and had come up with another problem. All right, so the Slytherins owed him for their freedom and their restored property. But why would Parkinson be going after his marriage with Callia, instead of doing something that related to what she owed him? His marriage had nothing to do with the Slytherins. "Is this the first time you'd met her in a while, or has she been following you?"

"If she's good enough, she could have been following me and I wouldn't have seen her," Callia pointed out.

Harry frowned. He hadn't thought of that. "Damn." Callia blinked at him, and Harry remembered that he didn't usually swear in front of her. He forced his breathing to calm, his heartbeat to slow the way that he often had to do when he was facing Sandborn, and smiled at her. "I'd like you to go a few unusual places tomorrow, and see if Parkinson follows you. I can give you a Locator Charm like the ones that we use when one of our Aurors is in danger."

"I know how to do one." Callia stood up and pulled her hands back from his. Although she hadn't yet gone to the door or gathered up her cloak, Harry had the impression that she was folding in on herself, trying to hold herself back from contact. He wasn't sure why, and sat there, gazing searchingly up at her. She avoided his eyes and shook her head a little. "You're sure that there's no truth to this rumor?"

"I've never heard it," Harry said. "And I really think the chances are higher that Parkinson made it up than that everyone else missed it." He smiled at her, trying to cheer her up. "The papers would have _loved _that one. _Future Potter Children Born as Statues?_ They'd lap it up."

Callia didn't smile back at him. "If you could see this from my point-of-view," she said softly, "you would understand why I don't find it funny."

"Of course not," Harry said, dropping the smile and the glimpse that he had tried to give her into his second soul. It wasn't working, and he should have known better than to try, he thought. He wondered if some of his other impulses, such as showing Malfoy his third soul, had been mistaken, too. "You're the one who would be at risk."

Callia nodded and held out her hand. Harry stood up so that he could clasp and kiss it, and then escorted her to the door, settling her cloak around her shoulders. He banished the small, wet puddle it had made beneath itself without a thought. He didn't want a trace of Callia in his house once she left.

"Do you want to marry me?"

Harry choked. He looked down and saw her eyes on him, so questioning that Harry had to resist the impulse to squirm away.

She had never asked him that before. One of the reasons Sandborn had approved of their relationship, and Harry had liked it, was that they didn't ask each other questions like that. Callia knew why he had dated her and agreed to wed her; she was the right choice, the one who would settle him in the Ministry's eyes and the public's. She was pure-blood, which made a nice romantic story, the powerful half-blood being folded back into the pure-blood world by means of a beautiful woman. She was of a family who had a few members that had been suspected of being Death Eaters, but altogether had stayed neutral. That family was neither too powerful nor too rich. She was smart enough to make a tolerable companion. Everything was set to work out, and she would have prestige and money.

Harry had never thought she would ask for more than that.

"I proposed to you," he said. "I know that you agreed. And that's all I think I can safely say on the matter."

A small smile quirked Callia's lips. It didn't look like a smile that she wanted to be wearing. "That's all you can say? So patient and so cautious. As though you're talking to a reporter instead of your fiancée."

"Yes," Harry said. "Did you want to marry me?" Fair was fair, and he could turn the tactic back on her.

"Past tense," Callia said. She touched the edge of her sleeve as though she would begin worrying it, and then dropped her hand. "Are you so worried about this rumor that you've already decided I'll ask for an escape?"

"You haven't said that you believe me," Harry pointed out. "Although you have no reason to trust Parkinson, you think something in her words matters enough to keep from committing to my belief."

"You've shown incredible ignorance of your family and its history tonight," Callia said softly. "That means you could be ignorant of something like this disease that changes children to stone."

Harry held himself still. He wouldn't show what he felt, because, right now, almost anything would be inadequate. He simply nodded, after a moment, and Callia examined the motion with a close eye, as though she assumed some extra stony stiffness might show up in his neck despite his safe birth.

She turned and went into the rain without bidding him farewell. Harry closed the door behind her and stood there with his eyes closed.

Then he turned and put away the book on the table as well as the piece of parchment lying beneath it. Sod writing a letter to Malfoy. He would speak to the bastard himself, and ask what he'd meant by setting Parkinson on Callia. If there was anyone who had behaved disgracefully when it came to that marriage, it was Harry, and perhaps Sandborn. Callia had nothing to do with it, and didn't deserve to be hounded.

* * *

"Malfoy! A word with you."

Draco honestly didn't recognize the haughty voice that called out behind him, and he turned around with a curious smile. He'd been on his way through the corridors of the Ministry to meet with Theo, who had been called there to consult on a potions accident. As far as Draco was concerned, Theo wasn't pulling his weight in the matter of freeing Potter from Sandborn's contract.

It was Potter. He had a long stride Draco hadn't seen before, and a hard light in his eyes that must have changed his voice.

"I don't think we should be talking here," Draco said with a chirp of warning in his voice. Granted, there was no one in this corridor, but someone could appear at any moment. What was Potter _doing, _thinking it was a grand idea to be seen standing together? Draco started walking again, guiding Potter towards the shadow of an alcove. He touched his wand, considered a Disillusionment Charm, and then decided against it. Potter didn't seem to be interested in keeping as silent as the Charm would require.

"I want to know why you sent Parkinson to attack Callia."

Draco raised a shimmering barrier of light and noise that would convince a passerby two Ministry officials stood there talking about something important and deadly boring, and looked at Potter. Potter leaned on the wall, his ankles crossed, his shoulders thrown back so that the scarlet Auror robe hung down behind him to good effect. He didn't have his arms folded, Draco thought, because the defensiveness of the gesture would give too much away.

Potter was thinking about his actions, his gestures, his body language, on the level that told Draco he was being the Ministry automaton again. Draco leaned on the wall, let himself slouch, and shook his head.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, "except that I'm sure Pansy did exactly as I asked, and that you're a berk if you're not grateful for the attempt we're making to separate you and your girlfriend."

Potter shook his head back. His hair hung more heavily around his face, somehow, or he had moved his head so that it did. Draco wondered what else Potter had sculpted his body to do, what silent messages he wanted to send, messages that Draco didn't even know he was responding to. He tried to keep his shoulders slumped. He didn't want to show Potter the intense uneasiness he felt when he thought about that.

"You don't need to do that," Potter said. "You need to do something to make sure that you have your freedom and your money, still, independently of Sandborn. My marriage has nothing to do with what you owe me."

Draco parted his lips, then closed his mouth again. " I see," he said. "I should have realized that. An understandable consequence of what I said. But I did not mean that we would only find a way to free you of the portion of the contract that applies to us. We mean to see you completely free of it."

Potter stood up very straight, his neck snapping around as he stared at Draco with a focus that made Draco want to take down the spell and run. He held still, and the moment passed, although Potter's neck still quivered with whatever tension had made him start up like that in the first place.

"You don't—have a reason to do that," Potter said, and Draco wondered what words he had intended to jam into the pause in his sentence before he corrected himself. "Freeing me that way would only mean that I owed you a debt in turn."

Draco sighed. "We can settle that later. At least it means that we aren't trapping you into a contract the way Sandborn did."

Potter's face looked like carved granite. "I told you, I was the one who approached him with that idea. And it's an equal exchange. I've always known what I was doing and what price I had to pay."

Draco closed his eyes and massaged the center of his forehead, between his eyes. "Potter, do you want to be free or not? You were speaking a moment ago about being upset that we interfered with your marriage, but apparently we can go ahead and get you out of the part of the contract that concerns _our _debts. You know as well as I do that Sandborn won't let a partial challenge to his authority stand. You either have to commit to fighting him completely, or you have to tell us to fuck off."

He didn't get a response, and opened his eyes to see why. Potter stood with his arms down at his sides, his gaze fastened on Draco's face. He drew in a breath, his own lips parting, and then just remained there with it whistling out.

And then Draco understood. He should have seen it at once, the way he should have seen that Potter would think Draco's words applied only to the Slytherin part of the contract, not all parts. He had spoken solely in terms of their debt, after all.

Potter hesitated on the brink of accepting their help. But he didn't know what might happen next, where for seven years his life had been governed by the security of the contract, and he didn't really like or trust or know Draco and his friends. He didn't know what might happen if he reached out and they let him fall.

Draco wasn't in the habit of making sentimental gestures, even if they might help ease his relationship with someone else. But he put out his hand now, and took Potter's, sliding his fingers around the cold wrist and up an arm that felt more like the limb of a statue than anything else. He didn't try to hold Potter, simply pressed down, so that Potter would feel the weight and warmth of his hand and could judge for himself.

"I promise you," he whispered, "we won't let you fall. We'll help you figure it out. You've served and suffered seven years for the sake of the wizarding world, Slytherins as well as Gryffindor. We can free you in six months."

Potter stared at him. Draco knew that he would never understand what the man was feeling in that moment. He couldn't. He wasn't the one in this situation, and he would never have put himself there.

But he held still, and he let Potter look for what he needed in his eyes and his face, and it seemed that Potter found it, because he looked away. His fingers turned and closed backwards on Draco's hand, clutching with a desperate strength made slippery by sweat.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Draco smiled, partially because he thought Potter needed to see that right then and partially because Potter was taking his hand now, and hadn't rejected him when he reached out, the way Draco had thought would happen.

"You're welcome," he murmured, and then slipped away, dissipated the spell that had guarded them, and set out in search of Theo again. He suspected Potter needed time to recover from what had passed between them before he contacted Draco once more.

For that matter, so did Draco. He had no idea how Potter lived with that intense courage and commitment _every single day. _It would make Draco break out in hives if he didn't have a holiday now and again.


	8. In a Moment Change

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Eight—In a Moment Change_

"Potter. I want to speak to you."

Harry turned around. He had barely entered the Ministry party tonight—which was in celebration of a heroic deed by one of the past Ministers, when he had faced down a rampaging army of Dementors—when Sandborn accosted him. Harry kept his arm and his face both stiff, partially because Callia was on his arm and he didn't want her to feel his emotions. "Minister?" he asked as he bowed.

"You heard me." Sandborn jerked to a stop in front of Harry. Harry surveyed him. He had high color in his cheeks, more than usually showed unless he was at a gala where he thought he could lower his guard and drink, and his hair looked as though he'd used the back of the comb instead of the teeth. Harry held back his twitching lips and slammed his first soul into place like an ice mask.

"Yes, Minister." Harry looked sideways at Callia. "Is it something my fiancée can't hear?"

"_Yes_," Sandborn said, and his gaze was so direct that Harry raised his eyebrows. Callia, he noticed from the corner of his eye, had her lip curled at such open expression of emotion. She touched Harry's arm with her fingertips canted at a slight angle and moved away towards the table of food. Harry bowed to Sandborn again and followed him across the large open room where the party was taking place so that they stood behind a stage. The musicians who would play on it hadn't arrived yet.

Sandborn spun around the moment shadows enclosed them and fastened his fingers like talons on Harry's shoulders. Harry glanced at them and then back at the Minister's face.

"Minister, you look flushed," he said.

Sandborn blinked, then nodded and closed his eyes. Harry knew he was struggling to gain control. If Harry had noticed, others could, and Sandborn was far more attentive to the eyes of enemies than even Harry.

A Dark wizard might kill Harry on the battlefield, but no one in the halls of the Ministry could challenge or change his arrangement with Sandborn. He had no reason to be as wary of them as Sandborn had to be.

He had thought.

Harry abruptly swallowed back some of the cascade of dread that had flooded his throat. _Did _he have to worry about them? If Malfoy and his Slytherin friends could find out about the contract, could make Sandborn run and stamp like this, could someone else?

Harry hadn't thought about it, but emerging from Sandborn's protection _would _mean that he suddenly gained a large bunch of determined enemies. He tried not to let the realization show on his face.

Once, he would have had no trouble doing that. The existence, the _possibility_, of hope had changed him.

And Sandborn, Harry was reminded as the Minister stepped back from him and gave him a normal smile. Harry was weakened, stumbling about in this changed world, but Sandborn was much the same. Harry no longer needed to think of him as an invincible opponent he couldn't move or annoy.

Change. Harry had forgotten how terrifying he found it.

"Thank you," Sandborn murmured. "I went to retrieve a copy of our papers from my private safe, and found them gone."

Harry stared at him, hoping that his first soul would show surprise and horror as well as his third one could. The third one was reeling.

_Malfoy stole the contract. Or arranged for it to be stolen. What? Why in the world? Does he think he can publish it and discredit Sandborn that way? I'd hope he wouldn't be so stupid, but I don't know him that well._

"I thought so," Sandborn said, with a faint bob of his head and an even fainter smile. "The solution would be too simple if you knew who had taken it and how to get it back."

"I've received no demand," Harry said. "Minister—forgive me, but could you have overlooked it? Perhaps stirred it into a larger bunch of papers and then decided that it was nowhere to be found?"

Sandborn gave him that look of slow-burning contempt that he'd perfected ages ago. Harry straightened his back in response. Perhaps it was all right to let his first soul continue to guide his actions. He had to pretend that he didn't know anything about the Slytherins' "help," or even that the events they engineered were connected.

"I always know where our papers are," Sandborn said. He would not speak the word "contract" aloud where anyone else could hear it. Then again, neither would Harry. "It's gone. I wanted to know if you had borrowed it. But I see from your expression that you didn't."

"No," Harry said, leaving aside for the moment the fact that he didn't have free passage through Sandborn's wards and didn't know where he kept most of his copies of the contract. "But, Minister—it makes no sense. To steal it, someone would have to know that the papers existed."

"Yes," Sandborn said. "I know that I let slip no clues to anyone. That means that you must have done so, Potter."

_Shit. _But Harry had spent years fighting for every small advantage he could, and being able to keep his true emotions banked in Sandborn's presence was a considerably larger advantage than it might seem on the surface. He maintained his expression exactly as it was and shook his head. "My friends know nothing, sir. Could you believe that they would have left me in this situation if they did?" He judged it right to let a sliver of bitterness enter his voice then. Sandborn wouldn't believe in perfect calm.

"Perhaps your enemies decided to help you."

Harry laughed. A small huff of breath, but it was enough to make Sandborn focus on him and not on the dangerous thought he'd started from hiding. "My enemies, sir? Death Eaters who want me dead because I killed their Lord? Wizengamot members who tolerate me only because they believe me under your control?"

"That's right," Sandborn said. "They don't know that we really work as partners."

Harry tilted his head to let the shot glance off him, and continued. "Those family members of Dark wizards who refuse to believe in overwhelming evidence and continue to insist that those I've put in Azkaban have done nothing wrong? Sir, I don't know what you want me to say. They're more dangerous to me than to you."

"Then perhaps my enemies," Sandborn said. "Rettern has held an unreasonable grudge against me for months now. She could have started the investigation into long-settled financial matters as well as stolen the contract."

Harry hesitated for the barest fraction of a second. He didn't want to encourage Sandborn to think those events were connected. On the other hand, Rettern made a handy culprit, and Harry trusted her to handle herself against the political pressure Sandborn could bring to bear.

"I did hear something," he said, and then glanced away. Sandborn could probably see the deception in his eyes if he looked hard enough. Harry had learned to lie, but more by omission than directly; it was necessary to dance around his friends' ignorance of why he served the Ministry.

"You will oblige me by telling me." Sandborn's voice had lowered, the veneer of calm flaking away from it like paint from steel. Harry didn't curl his lip, but he felt the impulse. Moments like these proved the happy mask Sandborn wanted to live under false. He urged Harry to consider him a friend, until something threatened the chains he had around Harry's neck.

_Chains I put there. _Harry felt doubt throb in him like a wound. Did he _really _have the right to break his sworn word and turn against the Minister when Sandborn had done so much for him?

Dangerous thoughts, thoughts that didn't belong to his first soul. He murmured, "I had heard that Rettern had employed Alex Spender before we brought him in."

Sandborn's shoulders dropped the way they had in his office the other day when he thought he had Harry's attention. His answer was a mere sigh of breath, traveling so fast over his parted lips that Harry wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't already been listening for it. "Ah."

Harry nodded.

Alex Spender was one of the more dangerous wizards he and Ron had hunted in recent months, one who'd made a specialty of spells that twisted the mind. They weren't the Imperius Curse, which meant they weren't illegal. Harry had never understood that—there was still plenty of space for Dark Arts between Unforgivable Curses and ordinary spells—but that was the Ministry for you. The same thing tended to happen with pain spells that were less severe than the Cruciatus.

Spender had made himself expert at creeping into a wizard's mind, taking a few memories or perceptions, changing them, and then convincing the victim that they had always been that way. He had made a mother turn away from her son under the conviction that he wanted to kill her new boyfriend—Spender—and a father beat his daughter almost to death by rendering his temper more unstable. Soon his victims trusted only him, and would willingly sign away their valuables to him on his say-so. Twice that Harry and Ron had been able to prove, they had committed suicide with Spender as their only beneficiary under the will.

He might have been able to do it to Harry and Ron, but Harry had slipped through his nets with an ease that astonished him. He thought it might have something to do with the different parts his mind was split into, his three souls. Either way, Spender hadn't lost the stunned look on his face before Harry had Stunned him.

Sandborn smiled at Harry. "That would explain a great many things. You would recognize Spender's work most easily, Auror Potter. Would you speak to Madam Rettern and see what you can find out?"

Harry blinked. It was the logical course for Sandborn to take, considering his lie, but Harry hadn't expected he would assign the task to Harry. "Sir? I don't have a reason to visit her. She would suspect something."

"Not if you go with a dispensation from me." Sandborn's voice was soft enough to sound caressing. "Not if you go as the emissary for a peace treaty between us, in fact, and a bargain. A contract." He gave Harry a small smile as he spoke the dangerous word. Harry didn't smile back, but then, Sandborn wouldn't expect him to.

He breathed gently, against the surge of fury that sometimes built up inside him when he dealt with Sandborn even now, despite the division of his souls. He had no right to be angry, he reminded himself again. Sandborn had kept his bargains, and had offered only what Harry had been prepared to accept when he proposed the bargains in the first place. And Sandborn was an effective Minister, holding the whirling factions in equilibrium, able to convince those he dealt with that he had promised something far more than he really had when he smiled or winked at them, or simply shared a glass of wine and a short time in the evening with them.

He wondered, again, if he had the right to break his word to someone who had done such a good job of holding the wizarding world together. This was larger than him, larger than the measure of his single contract with Sandborn. Go up against the Minister, and what would happen? He would introduce chaos into a delicate system.

Sandborn's smile sharpened, and Harry shook his head. He had already made the decision to accept the Slytherins' help. He had lied to Sandborn about Rettern. He would play the game out now, and surrender only if it became clear that there was no way he could keep the gains he'd made without the contract.

"I'd be honored, sir," he said. "When will you send over the justification I can carry?"

"In the morning," Sandborn said, and let his hand rest on Harry's shoulder for a moment, as if they were friends. Harry hated that, but he kept his face immobile. "For now, go and join the party. I hope that you'll enjoy yourself." He smiled and looked over Harry's shoulder. "Callia is waiting for you."

Harry turned and found that she was, head bowed, looking serious as she contemplated her hands. But when he stepped towards her, her eyes came up and flashed over to him with a speed that made it clear her hands couldn't hold her attention.

Harry nodded to Sandborn, murmured his thanks, and waited for his dismissal. When it came in the form of Sandborn turning grandly away from him, he stepped back over to Callia and took her arm.

"Shall we dance?" he asked. Callia often wanted to be seen on the dance floor in his company. Harry understood why, but at the bottom of his third soul, he was amused that she thought someone might steal him away or try so hard to prevent their marriage. He wasn't exactly the hero he had been when he was young, and few women would want the perfectly-trained Minister robot. And the kind who did wouldn't pursue him openly while he was engaged.

"I don't wish to."

Callia spoke with her head bowed and her words falling heavily. Harry's mind went back to the other night when she had visited him, and he nodded.

"All right. Then let me get you something to eat." He guided her adroitly over to one of the tables in the corner of the room and began piling the plate high with delicate little sandwiches, cuts of cheese, and fruit. His churning stomach had taken away his appetite, as usual. Callia made sure that she had some kind of physical contact with him even when both of his hands were full, continually leaning on his shoulder or clasping his arm with one hand as if it was a manacle.

Harry kept from rolling his eyes, but with an effort. Parkinson was married, Callia couldn't know about the real purpose of those rumors that Parkinson had hinted existed, and it wasn't as though efforts to separate them were an everyday thing, not when they had Sandborn's tacit approval. She was being paranoid.

"Potter. I'd like to talk to you."

Harry turned around with a blink. Malfoy stood behind him, and he gave Harry a faint smile, tempered with boredom. He looked at Callia, and the boredom grew in his eyes before he lifted his glass to take a drink and masked his face with it. "Alone," he added.

Weirdly, the first thought that came to Harry was, _Maybe she's not paranoid after all._

* * *

Draco could practically feel Pansy hovering behind him. They'd come in to the celebration late, and Pansy had sought a shadowed corner, so that Callia wouldn't see her coming. The minute Draco drew Potter away, then she would pounce.

Draco had to approve of that when he saw Callia's flushed cheeks and glittering eyes. _Either she's drunk already, this early in the evening, or she shows too much of what she feels. Either isn't good for Potter's partner._

"I have a right to hear anything that _you _want to say to my future husband, I think," Callia said.

"Ah," Draco said, and held up one finger. "You might think that, but you would be wrong."

"Stop it, Malfoy." Potter moved forwards, and Draco felt laughter bubble in his throat when he realized Potter was angling his body between Draco and Callia. Apparently he was serious when he said that he didn't want her hurt. Strange for him to have morals on that score when they hadn't troubled him for so long.

"Social games such as this hold no interest for me," Draco said, proud that he didn't burst out laughing as he told that outrageous lie. "Come with me, and we can conclude our business and you can return to your lovely fiancée."

"Don't trust him, Harry." Callia's fingers were digging into Potter's skin, and Draco mentally took away all the points that he'd given her when he saw her sail in on Potter's arm, her face distant and her gown billowing around her like the sails of a ship. "You know that he's friends with the bitch who threatened me."

Draco held his face neutral, although he wanted to react to the word. He would only confirm Callia's suspicions if he said something, and he wasn't interested in doing so.

"I know they're friends," Potter said, and his eyes shone briefly with contained fire of the kind that Draco had seen in him the other day and when they were speaking through the fire. How long had he been missing that? "But it doesn't mean that he has anything to do with Parkinson's attack on you."

"Pansy wanted to duel you?" Draco intoned. "I'm sorry. I feel sympathy for anyone she goes after," he explained, when Callia stared at him.

"Not a duel," Callia muttered, but she obviously wished that she could say something else, if the way her hands fidgeted on Potter's arm was any indication. She moved away from him at last with a tiny sigh and spread her delicately manicured fingers as though calling on the whole room to witness what she was giving up, an hour of Potter's company. "Very well. Come and find me when he lets you go, Harry, and I'll heal your wounds." She gave Potter a melting smile and turned her back.

Draco stepped close enough that there was no chance anyone else would hear the buzz of his words beyond Potter's ear. "How did you get tricked into marrying that one?"

"I haven't married her yet," Potter said, with a heavy look in Draco's direction, and walked back to the food table. "What did you have to say to me? You realize that approaching me in public attracts the attention we wanted to avoid."

"That you wanted to avoid," Draco said, walking beside him. "I see no reason not to attract it, as long as Sandborn doesn't guess the real reason I'm helping you."

"Then what excuse did you have prepared?" Potter stared at him out of the corner of one eye and picked up a tiny sandwich. Draco wondered why until he saw him holding it so that it blurred the shape of his lips from a distance. Someone who could read the movement of those lips would find it more difficult now.

"Your lovely fiancée has laid the ground for us already," Draco said. "Kind of her. I intend to spread the tale that I'm madly in love with you and want to prevent you from marrying her, or at least make sure that you're unhappy in marriage."

Potter choked. Draco patted his back and let his hand linger deliberately too long. He smiled. Whether or not Callia had seen it—and she might not have, with Pansy busy at her—it would provide fuel for the gossip she couldn't help but hear.

"You—no one will believe that," Potter said, stepping away at last and looking at Draco with a pale face. Draco smiled up at him.

"You underestimate the eagerness people have to believe in a good story," he said.

"This isn't a good one." Potter's voice was flat, and he looked as though he'd like nothing better than to cower in a corner and scrub at his lips. Unkind of him, Draco thought. He hadn't attempted a kiss yet.

"Yes, it will be," Draco said. "Once we dress it up in the proper lies. Enemies during Hogwarts? On opposite sides of the war? We saved each other's lives? Obviously I wanted to be with you, but couldn't because my father had dastardly plans for me. But all that has changed now, and I have only the barrier of a proper marriage to pine away at. Difficult for me, embarrassing and awkward for you. Any such behavior that you show around me will have a proper explanation in everyone's minds. They'll make it up themselves."

Potter stared at him for a moment. Then he gave a hard smile, which was not at all the reaction Draco had expected, but was better than spluttering and more productive than disagreement. "I know all about that," he said softly. "The lie of a hero about to marry a pretty woman and acting in accordance with the wishes of a heroic Minister is a powerful one, too." He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. "It won't do you any harm with your friends? Or do you have a lover?"

Draco sighed. "Your past has made you too bloody protective of everyone else," he told Potter. "Do what you want for once, and you _might _actually find that it's more pleasant than you believe it is."

"This has nothing to do with being protective," Potter said. "I don't want someone to disrupt the plan with protests or jealousy. I'm already dealing with Callia's jealousy. Will you have problems or not?"

"I wouldn't have suggested the story if I did," Draco said. "Give me credit for that much sense."

Potter nodded. "All right. Should I act outraged or intrigued?"

Draco paused. "I should have realized," he murmured a moment later, when the protests still hadn't started and Potter simply stood there and watched him. "You're more of an actor than you used to be. This is another role for you to play, not a violent outrage."

"Not much outrages me anymore," Potter agreed calmly. "But right now, I need to know the role."

Draco shook his head. "I think I prefer the fire that you show when something truly startles you or pushes you beyond your boundaries."

"You may," Potter said. "I don't. That makes me dangerously unpredictable. Now. Will you tell me what I should do, or do I have to stalk away in disgust and pretend to Callia on my own initiative? She's coming up again, by the way. I don't think Parkinson managed to distract her for long."

Now that Draco thought about it, he could hear the stiff clash of Callia's skirts as she came nearer. He nodded. "Act a mixture between the two. You're pushing me away, because anything else would be absurd, of course. But you keep casting glances back at me. You wonder if perhaps excitement is what's been missing from your life, the excitement that an unsafe love affair could provide you with."

"Right," Potter said, and then sneered. The sneer was so realistic Draco fell back a step before he thought about it.

"Stay away from me, Malfoy," Potter said, loud enough that several other people turned around from their conversations, low enough that those who wanted to could pretend to ignore it. "You don't want to know how burned you'll get, playing with me." He snapped his fingers in Draco's face and stalked over to Callia.

But he paused for one glance back, and Draco saw curious eyes take note of that, too, and greedy smiles spread across lips.

Draco shook his head. Potter would do as Draco asked of him, fully committed now that he had chosen his side. But Draco would be glad when the contract was broken and Potter free to act like his normal self, whoever that was now. This man he was when he acted unsettled Draco and made him wonder what else might be hiding behind his façade.

Then Draco grinned.

_At least I'm not bored anymore._


	9. A Time of Refusals

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Nine—A Time of Refusals_

"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Madam Rettern."

The Wizengamot member's smile was distant as she put out her hand so that he could kiss it. "Your message was most persuasive," she murmured. "And I was curious."

Harry smiled and kissed her hand. It felt rock-steady beneath his lips, the kind of steadiness that he thought Callia tried to achieve and so rarely did. When he lowered it again, keeping hold of it for a moment longer than necessary, Rettern looked at him with the same steadiness apparent in her eyes.

She had dark red hair, many shades duller than a Weasley's, and it clung around her face like briars. Harry had never seen her, either in person or in a photograph, with hair that looked halfway tame. Then again, that made him feel partially akin to her, and he had the feeling that it was a deliberate political ploy, so he didn't sniff at her in disdain as he knew a lot of people did. Her eyes, bright hazel and sharp, never hid themselves under the hair anyway, but stared defiantly at the world. She tended to wear robes in shades of deep brown or green, claiming that she was too old to need fancy colors. Since she was younger than some of the people she worked with, that claim had always amused Harry.

He could see why the Slytherins had gone to her, other than because she had a grudge against Sandborn. She was one of the few people who could stand up to the Minister.

"It is the least I could do, for the hero who saved our world and then showed that he had political instincts," Rettern said, stepping back and gesturing him into her home. Harry had the impression of wide, open rooms, large windows that filled the space with sunlight, comfortable couches. He didn't look at much of it, because he didn't dare take his eyes away from her face. Her words bit against his throat like a gentle knife.

"Thank you anyway," he repeated, and held out the message that Sandborn had given him. "The Minister sent this."

Rettern didn't take it, choosing instead to keep her gaze on his face. Harry wondered if she was paranoid and thought the message poisoned, or if she had some other reason for keeping away from it. "He has made you a courier for his messages now?" she whispered. "Is there no end to his perfidy?"

Harry stifled the temptation to tell her that, on the scale of Sandborn's perfidy, this was pretty bloody far down. "Madam," he said, and inclined his head a bit stiffly. "This isn't a message, as such. It's an offer of peace, of a truce."

"Can he give my daughter back her pride?" Rettern asked. She still hadn't taken the message. "Can he give the people who were unfairly tricked out of their money all those years ago the enjoyment of the years they should have had? Unless he can, I'm not interested in his truces."

Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other, ready to reach for his wand if he had to. Rettern now seemed nothing like what he had imagined, especially when he'd heard that the Slytherins had approached her for help. She was snarling, nasty, abrasive. More to the point, it sounded like she might believe it wasn't the Slytherins who had been cheated out of their money years ago, but the people it would have gone to otherwise.

"I don't know about that, madam," he said. "I only have the message. Should I tell him that you refuse to accept it?"

"What, and go running back to him with _your _pride in tatters?" Rettern let her lips roll back from her teeth. "Do you really want to do that?"

Harry would have ground his teeth in frustration if he didn't have his first soul firmly at the ready. "Not really," he admitted. "But if you don't have an answer for him, or refuse to accept the truce, then I have to report that, too."

Rettern stepped back and waved him further into the room. Harry went, his eyes on her face, never moving from her. She wasn't behaving at all like he had expected her to behave. If she hated Sandborn, she should hate Harry, too, as the emblem of his rule. And if she was polite to him, she should have been polite about Sandborn. It made no sense. He didn't like things that made no sense when he wore his first soul, which was one reason why Callia's fluttering the other night had disturbed him so much.

"Poor hero," Rettern said. Harry could make out nothing at all from the tone of her voice, whether it was mocking or indignant or thoughtful. "You have nothing left to live for if you don't have him to serve."

Harry bit his tongue against the impulse to protest. The Slytherins might have recruited her, but they wouldn't have told her about the contract, which meant he had to group her among the company that believed certain things. "I wouldn't put it exactly like that, madam," he said. "We're partners. We help each other."

Rettern paused and smiled at him. "You are the only person who could claim partnership with that arrogant bastard and not have it sound pathetic."

Harry bowed so that he could hide his eyes. He had the feeling it was a good idea right then. "Thank you, madam."

"You don't vary your mode of address," Rettern said, and tapped her wand against her leg. Harry had known she had it drawn since he came into the room, but she hadn't pointed it at him yet, and he wouldn't flinch until she did. "It would prefer it if you did. Call me Jenna-Jane."

Harry nodded again. "If you wish, Jenna-Jane." He could keep emotion out of his voice as well with a first name as with a surname, so if she was hoping for some revealing sign, then he would disappoint her.

"Excellent," Rettern said. "And now, I believe I have invited you by both gesture and implication to take a seat, and you've ignored me."

That forced Harry to take his eyes off her so that he could look around the room. A large, squishy couch was behind him, scattered with pillows that looked as though they'd been specially designed to cup a weary arse. Harry tried to keep his thoughts off his face as he sat, and, for good measure, crossed his legs.

"Good," Rettern said, and actually smiled at him this time, a smile that reminded him of a rat's, quick and sharp. "Now. Tell me something I've always wanted to know."

"What's that?" Harry asked, with the same easy smile he used for newspaper reporters. He thought he knew what was happening now. Rettern wanted a favor from him, or to bask in his reflected "glory," and she had chosen an unusual method to win that from him. Well, that was no problem. Harry could always give her something brief and seemingly intimate and meaningless, and then leave.

"What hold does Sandborn have over you?"

Harry choked. He tried to pretend that he'd swallowed air the wrong way and coughed, but from the way Rettern leaned forwards in the chair she'd taken herself and smiled at him again, it wasn't successful.

"Madam?" he asked when he could speak again.

"Jenna-Jane," she reminded him.

"Jenna-Jane," Harry agreed, glad that he had a name to speak so that he would have an extra chance to recover his composure. "Sandborn has the same hold over me that he does over everyone else. He's Minister. He was the one who brought our country out of chaos after the war. I owe him the loyalty that I would owe to any representative of the government, whoever it was, and the allegiance that an Auror gives the head of his Ministry."

"No," Rettern said, after so long considering him that Harry thought she was going to kick him out. "Not good enough."

Harry had had a chance to recover, now. He turned his hands up, towards her. "I don't know what _would _be enough for you," he said simply. "That's the only answer I can give. If you think the Minister works more closely with me than with any other Auror, well, that's true. But he has to. It's political necessity, not because we're particularly close friends." And that was all true, and it would remain true if she asked Sandborn or Sandborn's aides. Harry could feel himself settling into the chair, as his first soul flared up behind his eyes and the world started making sense again.

Rettern smiled at him. "You must think me a fool."

"I don't," Harry said. "Or I would have wondered why Sandborn wanted peace with you, instead of thinking of you as a potential threat. He wants peace because of your investigation, you know. He fears what you might find." He saw no reason not to go on telling the truth, especially because she would hardly contact Sandborn to confirm that it _was _the truth.

"The reason you think me a fool," said Rettern, and then paused. "Actually, I'm not sure why you do. Little experience of me, I think. That must be the reason. But you are acting as if you believe that no one has any true idea about the real relationship between you and our beloved Minister."

Harry gritted his teeth, and managed to hold back a shout with some difficulty. If the fucking Slytherins had told her about the contract, then he was going to—

"That is right," Rettern said, with a little nod. "When you stood in front of us for the first time and pleaded for Narcissa Malfoy's freedom, you had that fire in your eyes. I wondered where it went when you came back two days later, your face all smooth and your mouth full of the Minister's words."

_Perhaps I should be glad that I haven't been in close quarters with her before, if she can read me this fucking well. _Harry breathed out slowly and kept his eyes fastened on her face. "Madam, I really don't know what you mean. Of course I pleaded differently then. I was a child."

"Children didn't grow up that fast in two days," Rettern said. She leaned in and tapped his knee, which was so unexpected that Harry had to jump and keep himself from raising his wand with a conscious thought. "Besides, you weren't a child when the war finished."

Harry gave her a polite smile. "I've heard a lot of people say that. But it's untrue. Compared to the experience that I have of the world now, and what I know about politics, I was so childish that it makes me hurt to think about it."

Rettern rolled her eyes. "All this dancing about the main point, and you won't take the invitations that I'm extending to you. Very well. I believe that you can become my ally against Sandborn. And if you have any sense at all—which I'm also choosing to believe that you do—then you'll take my offer."

Harry stared at her until he became aware that she was smirking, at which point he slammed his mouth shut and scowled at her. "You don't know what part I really play in the Ministry," he said. "Or you forget. I'm the Minister's public relations victory. There's nothing you can offer me that would make up for what I would lose by leaving him." That was true. Malfoy and the other Slytherins would only succeed as long as Harry didn't acknowledge their help. Rettern went too far in offering him an open alliance.

"You keep looking to portray yourself as stupid," Rettern said mildly, more mildly than Harry would have thought she could have given her famous temper. "It won't work, not with someone who knows how to look for the deception. You do serve the Minister, yes. But I don't think you want to, and I think you could do good work for me."

_So it begins. _Harry felt an incredible weariness course through him. This was something he should have anticipated, but hadn't. One of the things his association with Sandborn had done was keep him safe from attempts to court him and make him into a tool or ally—which for most members of the Wizengamot was the same thing.

"I came here with a message that you won't accept, and you give me one that I can't accept," he said, standing. "I'll take that much back to the Minister. You're never going to take a truce from him, are you?"

Rettern seemed to swell up like a toad as she sat there. "Do you have any idea of the insult that he handed me by refusing to accept my daughter for the Ministry position he offered?" she demanded. "She would have been sure of a career and money that she needs to care for her family, and—"

Harry nodded and made vague sympathetic sounds as the story continued, but didn't respond. He didn't think Rettern was the kind of person who would let her grandchildren starve. Besides, he had heard too many sob stories like this before, from all the people who wanted him to use the power they imagined he had to cure their ills and solve their every problem.

Rettern realized sooner than most of them that she had lost his attention, though. She abruptly stopped speaking, and Harry woke up and looked back at her to find that she was leaning forwards with her eyes fixed on his face.

"You don't succeed in portraying yourself as stupid," she said. "That includes hiding the glazed look that shows you're bored by the stories."

Harry had no idea what she intended to offer him by now, an alliance or a compliment, an insult or a shove away. He settled for a shrug.

"You can trust me more than you think," Rettern said quietly. "The Minister has not succeeded in balancing the people who orbit him as well as you might believe, looking around his system from the inside. There are plenty of people who would be willing to betray him and take his place if they had a bit of help."

"Including you?" Harry asked, hoping that she would get angry at the direct question and throw him out. He was tired of this, and what he needed was an excuse to leave.

"A cheap shot," Rettern said. "No. But I could offer some of those eager ones my help, and I would appreciate your recommendations as to which ones would best repay my investments."

Harry shook his head. Say what he would about the contract with Sandborn, at least there were no false promises in it. Each of them offered what they could pay and no more than that, and he didn't have to listen to people justify why _their _grey morality was different and exactly the same as the morality he valued more. "I think I'm going now, Madam," he told her, and turned to face the door. "If you decide to accept the truce with the Minister, then please do tell me, and I'll pass the message on to him."

"You don't know what you're giving up, here." Rettern's voice sounded muffled. Perhaps she'd pulled the cloth of her hood over her face. Harry wasn't about to glance back and check. He felt as if he'd been bathing in slime simply being here.

"No, I don't," he said. "Not for certain, because nothing is ever certain in this world we live in." That was the sort of proverb that Sandborn had taught him, and that Harry had found useful more than once when he wanted to occupy someone else's time and convince them he was thinking deeply. "But I can know it by its similarities to other offers I've received, and that's enough for me to hate it."

Rettern laughed behind him as he departed. Harry thought it sounded angry.

He didn't care. He Apparated home, sent an owl to Sandborn letting him know that the mission had failed and Rettern had declared that she wouldn't accept the truce, and then spent the next half-hour standing under his shower, warming the water again with magic whenever it failed.

* * *

Astoria shook her head when her owl, Invictus, arrived in the kitchen in the middle of breakfast. "You know you're supposed to wait," she chided it, carefully wiping Aurora's face free of the cornflakes and milk that had fallen to decorate it. Aurora burbled at her mother and reached out to pick up another handful of cereal.

Invictus landed on her arm, hooting, as cheerful as Aurora about getting into trouble. Astoria sighed, held her daughter's hand away from the squishier of the cornflakes in the bowl, and took the letter.

It bore Rettern's seal, and from the slashes in the handwriting that directed it, Astoria could tell she hadn't been calm when she wrote it. Of course, Rettern was far from calm at the best of times, but she hid the true sources of her anger from her enemies, knowing they would wield it as a weapon against her.

_If this is due to Draco, then I'll make him deal with the fallout, _Astoria decided, and opened the letter. "_No, _Aurora, you can't mash them in your hair," she said absently, and cast a spell that would Vanish the cornflakes from Aurora's skin the moment they touched a body part other than her hand or mouth. The doleful howl that warbled up from her daughter's mouth a moment later said that she'd been successful.

Invictus bobbed and pecked on her arm, and Aurora picked up a tidbit of meat for him. Her owl was fairly calm, and she needed all her attention to tease out the subtle nuances of the words that Rettern had sent her.

_My dear girl, _

_ I have seen the friend you recommended to me. He strikes me as dangerously unready for life outside the protective embrace of the Minister's office and his own heroism. Yes, he once did all he could to benefit us, and from that point of view he is incomparably valuable. But I fear that he rests on those laurels and is unwilling to realize that the real world is one of give and take, of compromise. Perhaps he would be useful if we engaged in a more direct battle._

_ Progress on other fronts remains useful. I have uncovered links of sponsorships and debts, alliances and relationships, that I believe you will find of interest…_

There was more, but Astoria didn't attend to it right away, instead perusing the first paragraph again until she thought she had it by heart. She lowered the letter to table with a frown.

"You know I don't like to see lines on that beautiful forehead," Blaise said, stooping to kiss her as he passed. He picked up Aurora and blew against her stomach, making her giggle and forget about her frustration with the food. As he set her back in her chair, he looked at Astoria, and she handed him the letter.

"I don't understand," Blaise said, when he finished reading. "Draco said that Potter was subtle, an actor, capable of understanding the things that he offered and what he didn't offer. Why would he behave like an enraged rhinoceros around Rettern?"

"Blaise." Astoria frowned at him.

"Sorry," Blaise said. "I know that you've known some fine rhinoceroses."

"Exactly." Astoria reached out and linked her fingers over Blaise's, stroking lightly. This was one of the wondrous things she'd discovered when she made the decision to leave Draco and move on with her life. She could never argue or debate these things openly with Draco; he would think that she was out of practice with subtlety, when in reality she was simply testing her thoughts in front of an audience and judging from the echoes how sophisticated they really were. Blaise was her audience, her echo chamber, and her equal and opposite partner at times—the rare times—when she went too far and entertained thoughts that were actively harmful. "It doesn't fit with Potter's character as Draco portrayed him or as we've both seen him behave at Ministry functions."

Blaise shrugged. "We don't know what Rettern offered him. Perhaps you should write to Potter and ask."

Astoria paused, eyebrows climbing. She'd forgotten another role that Blaise could play for her: source of good ideas. Draco didn't usually have one of those in his head except about new and exciting places to fuck.

"Good idea," she murmured. "He knows that we're helping Draco. He ought to expect to hear from Draco's friends sooner or later."

Blaise wrinkled his nose. "I do hate to simply be shoved into that inchoate group, 'Draco's friends.' I'd say that it was time we taught Potter to see us as individuals."

"Past time," Astoria said, and leaned across the table to kiss him. The kiss went on until Aurora interrupted them. It usually did.

* * *

Harry had had quite enough of people knocking on his door in the evenings when he was supposed to be able to rest and relax. Worse, his wards had twanged quietly when the knock sounded, which meant the intruders had no wands drawn but weren't people he knew, whom the wards would have recognized from the magical signatures in their auras. Perhaps Rettern had sent someone to talk to him.

He stood up cautiously, stretching his back and rolling his neck. He hadn't realized until the shower how much tension he'd carried with him from Rettern's.

He chided himself for that again as he reached the door. What exactly had he expected freedom to be like? To come without costs? No, it didn't, and he couldn't run back to the contract's protective embrace every time he encountered something he didn't like. It was too bad for him, but he was committed now. Bound.

Contracted, if you like.

He thought he still had a faint smile on his face as he pushed the door open. It faded when he realized that he didn't recognize his visitors as Ministry flunkies or Wizengamot lackeys. The tall woman had a hint of Callia in her face and her eyes, but she wore a long white cloak of ermine fur Callia could never have afforded. The man beside her, dark-skinned and handsome with it, caught Harry's eye and gave him a slightly familiar smirk.

"Zabini," Harry said after a moment. "And Astoria." He bowed to her. He had seen her at Ministry parties, he recalled now, standing beside Zabini—her husband? Boyfriend? Harry didn't know—and carrying a glass of ice water. He hadn't ever seen her drink. That was enough for him to mentally classify her as careful, next to dangerous in his mental book. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Entrance first of all," said Astoria, "and then something warm to drink. There is some nasty rain out here, Potter, in case you hadn't noticed."

Since he had been inside before it began, Harry hadn't, but he nodded and permitted them entrance through his wards. None of the alarms that would have marked concealed weapons or extra wands or malicious enchantments went off. Harry relaxed as much as he could with someone else in his home and reached out to take their cloaks as he had with Callia's.

Zabini smirked at him, took off his own and hung it up, and then reached out to take Astoria's. Harry fell back a step. Perhaps they didn't mean it this way, but they were Slytherins, and he read their subtle aggression as saying they had a right to comfort in his home.

He retaliated the only way he could, by giving them a meaningless smile and saying, "What would you like to drink?"

"Hot chocolate," said Astoria. "Brandy for Blaise. And then you can tell us exactly what you mean by refusing Madam Rettern's most advantageous offer."

Harry stared at her. The only thought that made it through his astonishment was, _Subtle aggression. Right._

To make the evening perfect, his Floo flared behind him, and Malfoy's voice called out, "Potter? You seem to have neglected to lower the wards so I might come through."


	10. An Intense Hour

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Ten—An Intense Hour_

Draco waited, leaning one elbow on the mantle. The refusal to take the wards down for him when he asked was simply unaccountable, but he reckoned that he would have to learn to live with that if he worked with Potter. The man knew the empty, polished words that one exchanged at Ministry galas, but that was a long way indeed from exercising proper courtesy.

Regardless, the color of the Floo flames changed subtly a second later. Draco smiled and leaned forwards. "Potter's home," he said, speaking slowly and clearly enough that the Floo stood no chance of landing him somewhere else.

Potter would probably prefer that it did, of course. Draco could live with the knowledge that he'd disappointed him.

Draco caught himself neatly on the edge of Potter's hearth, brushed off the soot that was doing its misguided best to cling to his robe, and nodded to Astoria and Blaise. He hadn't expected to find them there, having thought they would have made their call on Potter earlier, and that he would appear to reinforce their message. But he could certainly live with seeing them. "Hello, Astoria. Have you ceased to regret my magnificent bed yet?"

"Not when you would eat biscuits in it, and litter the pillows with crumbs," Astoria said, not batting an eye, and glanced at Potter. Potter had his mouth open and his gaze darting back and forth between them. Draco felt a moment's pity for him. _He _must not have ex-lovers whom he could banter with. Of course, in the seven years since the war, Draco thought he only recalled him being with Callia. Weasley's little sister and the romance Potter might have had with her had faded like a dream of paradise.

"I only did that once," Draco said. "Don't give Potter a false impression of me. He already thinks I'm rude and pushy. The last thing we need is for him to think I'm a slob."

"You—" Potter raised his hand as if he would wipe it across his face, and then lowered it again and shook his head. Draco wondered if he had decided that the gesture was too revealing. "I can't—fine. _Anyway. _Why would you think that I should ally with Rettern?" He had turned back to Astoria and Blaise as though Draco had ceased to exist. "She courted me in the way I hate to be courted, as if politics is the only acceptable human interaction."

Draco edged up behind him and curved his arm around Potter's waist, though he left it hovering in the air instead of touching skin or flesh. "You must tell me how you _like _to be courted," he murmured into Potter's ear. "It's important information."

Potter _danced _into the air, as if Draco had tried to fuck him in front of everyone, and then drew away to the opposite side of the room, giving Draco a look that could have fried eggs. Draco smiled. He preferred it to the cool ones that Potter handed out like sweets. Potter's attention was all very well, but Draco wanted his _unique _attention.

"I think we can drop the pretense in front of your friends," he said. "They know you don't want me."

"Define 'want,'" Blaise said, and he had the smug grin he did so well. He had already drawn a chair out for Astoria, and she sat down in it like the queen she was, leaving Blaise to find a seat of his own. "Draco's always talked about you far too much for anyone's peace of mind, and he's taken to this opportunity to help you with disturbing eagerness."

"He hasn't pined after me for years like a lover," Potter snapped. Then he seemed to realize he was showing his fire to more than one person, and a set of Slytherins at that. He turned his back and took a few quick steps away so that he was staring into the fire, shielding the expression on his face from prying eyes. "I want to know why you think that Rettern's such a good ally."

Draco raised his eyebrows at Astoria. She smiled back. Blaise was the one who took up the thrown gauntlet of the conversation, though, running his fingers idly back and forth through Astoria's hair. "We answer that question if you answer ours."

Potter canted his head slightly back to look at them. He had recovered his poise enough to have a calm sheen over his eyes again. Draco disapproved. Potters should always have an edge of wildness, or what was the point of them? "I already did. I don't want to ally with Rettern for the same reason I wouldn't want to ally with any other politician."

"No." Blaise leaned forwards and clasped his hands in front of him, although his elbow was still touching Astoria's. Draco frowned. They really were a disgustingly sentimental couple, and he would make sure to tell them so, the moment their sentimentality ceased to help him handle Potter. "The question about want. What do you think about, when you think about Draco wanting you?"

Potter turned his head and glared at Draco, as if it was somehow his fault, how Blaise chose to phrase things. Draco splayed his hands out and showed all the world his innocence.

"I think about him wanting to be free of debt," Potter said. "And wanting me to be different from the person he perceives me to be because, presumably, it would be more fun for him." He thought a moment, and then added, "And wanting me to be his friend, back in Hogwarts. But I think being allies would be enough to content him now."

Draco smiled. He knew that even Astoria tilted her head at the sight of it, but he didn't care. Potter had just showed him _honesty. _Considering the lies that spun around him in such fine, glittering fragments that most people weren't aware they existed, that was momentous.

And Draco was free to consider it a gift to _him_, rather than to him, Blaise, and Astoria, because he was the only one who realized the significance of the gesture. Only people who valued them should receive gifts.

"You're wrong," Draco said.

"About which part?" Potter had the reins of himself in hand again. He did no more than inflect his voice with a slight, cool curiosity.

Draco would have liked to shake him, but some things were beyond the bounds of both courtesy and common sense. He clasped his hands behind his back to lessen the temptation and said, "About wanting you only as an ally. About seeing you as a simple means to free myself, and my friends, of debt."

"Then explain to me what you want." Potter's voice had lowered, his eyes fixed on Draco as if he were a lone enemy, and Draco could feel the room cease to exist. He resisted the urge to lick his lips, because both Blaise and Astoria would never let him forget it, and they had enough blackmail material already.

But Potter could have built a Ministry career on the thrill of paying attention to one single person alone.

"I want you to stop acting like a statue of yourself," Draco said. "To let your honesty inform your life, the way I think it sometimes informs your Auror career." Then he saw the way Potter shifted his weight, and made a thoughtful noise. "No, that doesn't happen either, does it? You wouldn't have become an Auror if you had the choice. Instead, you traded your freedom in the choice of jobs to Sandborn with the contract. So even that isn't your own."

"I understand," Potter said, and he had tamped down the emotions into a stillness so profound that Draco thought it would have fooled most people who weren't him. "You want me to act more as the person you knew, the foil, the rival. That way, you can decide how to define yourself by me. You _do _seem to enjoy defining yourself in relation to different people."

Draco let himself stare, let the smile widen his mouth until Potter shifted his weight again, and then said, "You do have a brain. You can use it. Yes, I'd like to see more of that."

* * *

Harry felt as though he was pulling against the meshes of a fine, invisible net, and wondered how in the world he had ended up there.

This was—

No one had _noticed _him like that in years.

His friends knew him, yes, knew the only genuine part of him that Harry thought he had left, the willingness to sacrifice everything for their sake. But they didn't know the part of him that saw his own willingness and had decided to contract his services to Sandborn for their sakes. Malfoy had discovered that before anyone else had.

On accident, it was true, and because he was following Harry instead of paying attention to his own business at a Ministry gala, but still, he saw it.

Malfoy saw into Harry, saw past his excuses and his crimes and his weakness of will, and still found him worthy of attention. Harry's skin burned, and he swallowed a little. He knew he was blushing, that it was an unpardonable weakness, and that he couldn't stop it. That Greengrass and Zabini were witnessing this, too, was the only reason that enabled him to remain still when Malfoy said—

Well, things like what he'd said tonight.

Along with everything else, the unexpectedness of freedom and the fear of change and the suddenness of discovering that he hated the way Rettern had approached him, came the fact that he'd really like more of Malfoy's notice. He'd like to earn his admiration as well as give his own to Malfoy. He'd like to show that he was worthy of the time and attention that Malfoy was lavishing on him.

And he had to admit that that time and attention, at least from Malfoy if not the rest of the Slytherins, was personal. More than what he needed to settle the debt. Harry had believed the debt was the sole motive Malfoy had for acting this way, at one point.

He didn't, now.

He wrapped his arms around himself to still the involuntary shivers, and said, "Fine. Then that's the way I'll act." He turned back to Zabini, because he needed to look at someone right now who _didn't _make his heart race with genuinely dangerous desires, and said, "You were about to tell me why Rettern is so wonderful."

"I was," Greengrass said, a chiding note in her voice that Harry had heard before, most often from Mrs. Weasley. "I am the one who arranged for her to begin the investigation into Sandborn's allies who stood to benefit from our money and property being redistributed."

Harry nodded to her. "My apologies." He was used to dealing with that kind of pride—the kind that swelled like a balloon in the souls of most Ministry flunkies, not the kind that Malfoy had tried to show him like a distorting mirror that reflected only the best parts of Harry. "Please tell me." He went over to stand near the mantle, opening some distance between himself and the Slytherins. He didn't think they would cast spells at him, but he needed the steps between them, at the moment, for other reasons.

"Rettern has a grudge against Sandborn," Greengrass said. "He has no hold over her that I could find. She has the power to launch such an investigation, and from what signs I have been able to see, it is panicking him."

"It is," Harry said briefly. "I don't know what else is happening at the moment, but it's something that the investigation is prone to unbalancing. So he fears it not for itself, but for what else it might turn up."

Greengrass leaned forwards in her chair, all but vibrating. "How do you know this?"

"I know Sandborn," Harry said dryly. "He's been my more or less constant study for the last seven years. And he summoned me on the day the investigation formally began, to accuse me of perhaps knowing about it before it began. He uses me as scapegoat when necessary, but not often preemptively."

"Astonishing," Greengrass said.

"Why urge her to begin the investigation if you didn't think it would work?" Harry asked. Sometimes he didn't understand Slytherins at all.

Greengrass's hair flew around her as she shook her head. "I meant you. You _do _understand something beyond basic emotions and Gryffindor standards of rusty independence."

Harry found it much easier to hold his temper with provocations like this than the ones Malfoy had raised. Perhaps it was because these friends of Malfoy's, although they seemed to have decided to help willingly, didn't seem interested in him as a person, only in clearing their debt. "Yes, I can," he said. "I simply haven't had to do it in a while. Now, do you insist I work with Rettern? I can see you making that a condition of trying to free me."

"Is the only sort of bond you understand obligations, Potter?" Malfoy spoke casually from near the door, holding up his hand so that he could examine his nails. "You'll be boring company even when free, if that's the case."

"I understand obligations like these under the terms on which they're offered," Harry said. "You turned this into a debt, but you're going beyond what you strictly need to do. That must mean I owe you something. What is it?" He didn't take his eyes off Greengrass, because he knew looking at Malfoy would only confuse him.

"This is a repayment," Greengrass said. "All of it. Although, of course, if you make difficulty with Rettern, your freedom might take longer to arrive."

Harry hitched one shoulder up. "I can wait a few years, if necessary. What I want to know, if you won't accept another debt from me, is this: _must _I work with her? Will it jeopardize your plan if I don't?"

Greengrass sighed. "It would be easier to discuss these matters with the cup of hot chocolate you promise me some time ago safely in hand."

Harry murmured an apology for being a rude host—he had learned to do that kind of thing while he served Sandborn, too—and turned around to examine the cupboards. He thought he had some hot chocolate left over from Hermione's last party to celebrate her newest promotion, and so it proved. He busied himself making it, while he listened to Greengrass breathe in delicately behind him and Zabini and Malfoy talk. It sounded like they were talking about people he didn't know. Nothing interesting.

_Greengrass probably has to gather herself. I doubt she knew Rettern would ask me those questions, but she wouldn't want to admit that._

He found the brandy for Zabini while he was at it, and turned around with both drinks to give to the Slytherins, tossing Malfoy a look over his shoulder and arching his eyebrows to ask if he wanted anything.

Malfoy shook his head and gave him a richly amused look that made Harry bristle despite himself. "Your presence is enough," he said.

_Perhaps I do prefer Greengrass and Zabini, after all, _Harry thought, and moved over to stand by the mantle again. "You were about to tell me about Rettern," he told Greengrass. "And you've put off the news several times now. Is it that horrible?"

"I didn't know that she would ask you to work with her." Greengrass sipped a few times at the chocolate and then lowered it to the table beside her. Harry decided idly that it must not be up to her standards. "That was unexpected, yes. But she is still the best of the Wizengamot members we have to work with, and I see no sense in starting at the bottom. Work from the top, work with those Sandborn has most reason to be afraid of, and you will be free. And not in a few years," she added, curling her lip as though Harry's lack of impatience was a fault.

Harry relaxed a bit. He thought he was starting to understand her. Nothing he did would suit her, so he might as well stick to business and hope that would encourage her to do the same. "So you want me to please and impress her?"

"It would certainly help," Greengrass said.

Harry nodded. He could do that without promising her anything, he thought. Rettern was more direct than most of the people he'd met since he started serving the Ministry, but she would be used to dealing with those who weren't. Harry could let her know that he wasn't the unsubtle Gryffindor she might have been expecting, and she would probably back off and let him dance at the end of a long rope before she would risk losing him altogether.

"As long as I don't end up a different kind of slave because of the debts that I'll owe her," he said.

Greengrass looked at him sharply. "That's up to you. All we can do is get you out of the initial set of obligations."

"Perhaps not," Zabini said.

Harry glanced at him. Zabini smiled and leaned back with his hands behind his head, seeming to enjoy the attention from Harry as well as the pointed stare of his girlfriend.

"Would you mind explaining that, Blaise?' Greengrass picked up the chocolate and took a small, controlled sip. Harry recognized it as a means of hiding irritation, although her voice had been perfectly smooth. Callia did much the same thing, and Callia came from the same family as this woman, if a different branch.

"Sure," Zabini said. "I don't see that it's worth much use if Potter gets out of his contract to Sandborn but immediately finds himself under the thumb of another politician. That would be repaying our debt in the letter but not the spirit."

"Since when do you care about the spirit of an agreement like that, Blaise?" Greengrass leaned forwards.

"Since it was more fun," Malfoy and Zabini said at the same time, and then grinned at each other.

Watching them, Harry felt his heart ache with an unexpected envy. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a moment like the one they'd just shared with Ron. Sure, Ron might _think _they'd had moments like that, the exchange of laughter and jokes, but only Harry knew how false they were beneath the surface.

"If you can tell me how to convince Rettern to work with us when we don't have anything to give her in return," Greengrass said, folding her arms and tossing her long blonde hair back, "then I'm waiting to hear it."

"Her vengeance is her payment," Zabini said. "Why should she need something beyond that? There's no reason to think she would have come up with this plan on her own, and therefore, she wouldn't necessarily have earned the vengeance on her own. We offer her what we originally did, and no more. Meantime, we help Potter to set up as an independent power on his own." His eyes and teeth were both shining, and Greengrass looked at him with one twitching hand. Harry wondered how often she had seen that kind of grin, and how often it had got Zabini in trouble.

"If Potter is clever enough for that," Greengrass said, and her cold eyes turned to him.

"I don't know," Harry said in return to them. "I don't know how clever you would need me to be, and I don't know what you meant by independent power. If I can get free of the contract—" He paused and considered. What would he do, once a few months of recovery time had passed and he'd begun to confront his friends with the truth and accept their anger and give his apologies?

"I wouldn't want to be in the Ministry anymore," he said. "I wouldn't want to be an Auror. I wouldn't want to sit on the Wizengamot." He knew all that from the silent voice of his third soul speaking in his heart. "I don't think I'd want any of the recognizable power bases that you might try to install me in."

"Just because of who you are," Zabini said, and jabbed a finger at him, "you're going to be a threat to some factions in the Ministry and the Wizengamot who would want to control you. I think that you'll be best-advised to remember that. Ordinary actions from someone else can become threatening actions from you."

Harry shook his head, frowning, and glanced instinctively at Malfoy to translate.

"He means," Malfoy murmured, "that you can set up a power base, as such, simply by living an ordinary life." His eyes reflected the light of the fire as he gazed at Harry, and Harry found it hard to tell what he was thinking. Then again, hadn't that always been true? "You can make them all nervous by refusing to join either side, and they'll gradually come to terms with that as the status quo, but they'll always keep an eye on you."

Harry shrugged. "I knew that I would endure public scrutiny when I started serving Sandborn. That part, at least, I can put up with."

"But could you stay neutral?" Greengrass asked. "That would, indeed, be repayment for anything extra that we might do beyond dismissing our debt. Remain out of the reach of Gryffindor politicians as well as Slytherins? Stand aside on causes that might attract your attention and support?"

Harry shrugged again. "I don't know that I could refuse to help people, but I could certainly refuse to make public statements about it. Paradise at the moment is the idea of never having to give another speech."

"I wonder," Malfoy said softly, "if staying hidden would really content you."

Harry glanced back at him again. Malfoy was making him uneasy now. It was one thing to want his attention and live up to the weight that he was putting on your shoulders. It was another thing entirely to want to live up to the way his eyes gleamed just then, or to become the kind of hero-figure that you wanted to get _away _from.

"I don't want the attention," Harry said. "There's a reason that being the public face of the Ministry is a price I pay for Sandborn's aid, rather than a gift of the contract to me."

Malfoy sniffed in a way that plainly said, "If you say so." Harry turned his back again and focused on Zabini and Greengrass.

"What plan do you have for retaining your property?" he asked. "Rettern is only making an investigation into those who would have seized your money, as far as I know. And what about Azkaban?"

"Oh, the property part should be easy," Zabini said. "Do you have any idea how many people my mother threatens or sleeps with or marries in a year?"

Harry blinked. "No," he said in wonder. "And I don't think I want to."

"The exact _number _isn't important," Zabini said. "The point is that she can bring pressure to bear in a way that will expose a number of embarrassing secrets if people fail her. And since she'll be protecting her own property as well as mine—there was a strong chance she would have been accused, if you hadn't intervened—she'll fight even harder."

Harry nodded. "Fine. Then the part I'm most worried about, concerning you, is just what it'll take to make Sandborn not retry you when he finds out what we're doing."

"And _that _part," Malfoy said, "is going to be mine."


	11. Six Days and a Bit

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Eleven—Six Days and a Bit_

"There's no way that you can find a way to keep yourself and all your friends safe from Sandborn."

That was what Potter had said to him when Draco made his announcement about how he would be the one responsible for keeping Sandborn off their backs. Draco let his smile widen, thinking about it now, as he leaned back in his chair at home and watched the fire dance between the feet he'd levered up onto the table.

"Ye of little faith," he murmured in response to a man who was probably lying in an uncomfortable bed right now and trying to pretend that he was sleeping the sleep of the virtuous. Draco had looked around the house briefly before he left. Disgraceful, especially for someone who was pretending to be his lover. Draco would have to see about ordering a few tapestries and having them delivered anonymously. At least that would conceal some of the sharp corners and awkward angles. "I'll teach you to believe in me yet."

He stretched and yawned. He knew that he should go to bed soon. He had to meet Theo early the next morning to set his plan in motion.

But for the moment, he wanted to watch the flames dance and remember Potter's expression whenever he looked at Draco, and what he wanted had always been more important to Draco than what he was supposed to do.

He could get used to that expression.

But before he did, Potter would have to clean up his act and show signs of actually wanting to survive and enjoy himself like a normal human being. Draco had his private rules that he tried to obey more often than not, and one of them, after an unfortunate experience right out of Hogwarts, included _Never date someone with a terminal case of self-loathing._

* * *

"Callia! Just the woman I wanted to see."

Callia flinched and looked as if she'd like to crawl under a bed. There were none handy, so she couldn't, and had to settle for glaring at Pansy. Pansy smiled back at her. Poor little bitch, there was no master here to run interference for her and make her look like a proper pure-blood lady.

"Don't call my name like that." Callia shifted the bag on her arm and turned about to peer over her shoulder, as though she assumed anyone cared enough about her activities to spy on her.

"What should I call it like?" Pansy asked, interested, as she stepped into the small alley that ran away from Madam Malkin's and into a shadowed corner that some people used as an Apparition point. She didn't think anyone would use it this early in the morning, or she would have suggested that she and Callia meet somewhere else. Despite what the little cunt might think of her, Pansy really wasn't an idiot. "With the emphasis on the last syllable? I admit, that would make sure that no one could mistake you for anyone but who you were."

Callia closed her eyes and tried to take a breath, as if that would help her recover her temper. Pansy shook her head. _She _had never recovered her temper that way. All it did was make her light-headed. It was out of pure good intentions that she interrupted before Callia could do that to herself and be worse company than she already was.

"I have the report that you wanted." She gave a glance over her own shoulder as she took the parchment out of her pocket. Of course it was purely for show, since she _knew _no one was coming—unlike some people's, her ears worked—and even if someone had found the parchment, it was all lies from beginning to end. But there was the slight chance that Draco would be annoyed if these particular lies about a man he was pretending to pursue came out. Perhaps. Pansy toyed sending an owl to Rita Skeeter, simply for the joy of watching Draco's eyes flash as he tried not to explode at her. He really did have a life that was too easy.

"How did you get it?" Callia reached out a hand, then snatched it back as if it had only now occurred to her that Pansy might have poisoned the paper. Pansy hadn't, but only because she hadn't had time to find the particular contact poison that would cause the victim to lose control of her bladder.

"It seems that you're not the only one interested in Potter's seed," Pansy said, and saw the expected revulsion flick into being across Callia's face. Too bad. Pansy sharpened her smile and cocked her head. "I found this already written up. It was only a matter of calling in a favor or two, learning a few unlocking spells."

It really was convenient that she'd been in Slytherin when she was a student, she thought as Callia grasped the paper with a trembling hand. The idea of calling in "favors" was vague, but everyone thought they knew what it meant, and it covered a multitude of sins.

Or, in this case, a whole lot of nothing.

"It's real," Callia breathed.

"Of course," Pansy said. Once again, she was telling the truth. The report _did _exist. She'd spent a lot of time writing it, deciding on the choice phrasing that would make Callia believe that Potter's family had the curse on them that made most of their daughters die in childbirth and their children turn to stone in the womb, and then aging it with a few appropriate spells, as well as changing the handwriting. It should fucking well look real.

"I don't know why he never told me." Callia stared at the report and turned it over a few times, as though the reason for Potter's silence was written on the back. Then she reared back and looked Pansy in the eye. "Why are _you_ helping me?"

_Little idiot. She should have realized I'd have no motive to do so and figured out the lie from that. _But Pansy had no trouble in keeping a look of boredom on her face. It didn't differ that much from a look of contempt, after all. "Because Draco's announced an intention to go after Potter. I don't particularly want him to. Brunets and blonds don't look good together." Callia angled her a burning look. Pansy pretended not to notice. "Embarrass him badly enough, and Draco will drop the chase."

"I never said that I intended to publish this," Callia said, her fingers tracing along the crease now.

Pansy gave her a bored look again. Her hands were shouting the intention.

"But I can use it," Callia added, as though afraid Pansy would take it back again if she admitted that she didn't have an immediate use for it, and tucked it into a pouch at her waist. Turning her back, she started to walk towards the mouth of the alley.

Pansy called after her politely. Occasionally it paid to use politeness, to confuse one's victims. "There is the matter of payment."

Callia turned her head over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes. "I didn't ask you for this. You chose to give it to me."

Pansy smiled at her, and waited for her to understand. Payment, and the necessity for payment, didn't change because one hadn't asked for something. Callia had accepted the report, and that was as good as having asked in the first place.

Callia turned her head and walked back towards her, all but kicking at the puddles left over from last night's rain. Pansy chose to allow her that childish indulgence because it cost her nothing.

Besides, Callia's face was uglier than ever when she flushed. Pansy wanted to see and remember it in case Potter ever needed convincing about what a hag his bride was via Pensieve.

"What do you want?" Callia asked. "You haven't mentioned anything."

"As I said, Draco has too much interest in Potter for his own good, or for the higher interests of fashion," Pansy said. She paused, but Callia simply looked at her. Pansy sighed. Whether stubbornness or stupidity was keeping the woman silent, she did deplore Potter's lack of taste. Perhaps she should oppose Draco's attempts to help him in truth. They would get Potter free of this entanglement and he would only find another bint to hang on his arm. "I want you to show Draco that he's not welcome around your future husband."

Callia's eyes went wider when she smiled. Pansy despised the gesture. It showed too much emotion. "That will be no problem," she said. "And you're sure that you want that as _payment_?"

"Did you want me to demand something else?" Pansy asked, in growing disgust at how stupid Callia was. Her lungs _ought _to have stopped working by now; it should be too much effort to walk and breathe at the same time. "I certainly can."

Callia ducked her head and murmured a few words that might have been a refusal. Pansy didn't deign to listen to them closely enough to determine if they were. She waved her hand, dismissing Callia from her presence, and turned away.

She did listen after that, and heard the moment of the indrawn breath when Callia realized that Pansy had her back turned to her. Pansy didn't let her hand brush her wand. If Callia struck now, foolish enough to believe that she paid no attention, then Pansy would have payment of a different kind.

But she didn't. Instead, Pansy heard the swish of her robes as she hurried off.

Pansy sniffed and headed for the Apparition point. She should find out whether Theo and Draco were still working on the potion, and drag her husband away if they were. She was in need of a good shag to remove the taste of dislike from her mouth.

* * *

"You said that it would be ready yesterday." Draco kept the whine out of his voice. He never whined. He spoke in a deep and manly tone, and sometimes that tone happened to be a bit higher-pitched than it was at other times.

"I thought it would be." Theo pushed his glasses up his nose as he stared down at the potion. It had changed colors three times now, from dark green to dark blue to dark red, and still none of them were the rich, amethyst-like purple they needed. "I don't understand," Theo added, propping his chin on his fist as he stared at the bottle.

"That's fucking obvious," Draco muttered.

He thought he saw a shadow pass by the door of the potions lab, and rolled his eyes. Pansy had this odd rule that she was the only one who could swear at her husband. She hadn't even bothered doing that yesterday, only taken Theo's arm, smiled at Draco, and pulled him out of the lab. Draco had shut the door so that he didn't have to hear the sound of bedsprings being abused. He objected to abuse of any kind. That was why his beds at home were deep and soft and comfortable, with many layers to spare the bedsprings.

"I'm sorry that I left so suddenly yesterday, all right?" Theo snapped. "You're right, we probably would have had it finished by now if I hadn't."

"I didn't say anything about that," Draco said, raising his eyebrows. Raising one's eyebrows was a good way to proclaim innocence and annoy the fuck out of someone at once.

Theo simply glared at him. Then he shook his head and bent over the bottle. "Let's figure this out."

Draco slipped easily into the rhythm of shop-talk. Theo was the only one of his friends who understood enough about potions for him to do this with. Astoria, poor dear, thought too much about sex, and Blaise thought too much about Astoria, and Pansy wasn't interested in any potions unless perhaps they invented one that would increase the total amount of stupid people for her to torment. But Theo _understood_. Potions came to life under his hands. Bubbles purred when they saw him. Stirring rods begged to be picked up by his hands.

But not this time.

Draco squinted thoughtfully at the potion and then twisted his head to the side. He laughed aloud when he saw the floating patch of dark purple there, and tapped the side of the bottle. The patch moved away from him, clumping together as if it was some kind of floating raft of fungus.

"What are you on about?" Theo bent over from the other side, saw the patch, and let his mouth fall open. Pansy's shadow crossed under the door again as if she had seen him do it, and Theo hastily shut his mouth and coughed. "I can't believe I didn't come up with the obvious explanation," he muttered, and dived into a pile of scribbled notes, adding to them with a quill that shook in his excitement.

Draco patted him on the shoulder. "There, there," he said. "You needed someone around to add the necessary spice to your ideas. It happens to the best of us."

Theo didn't bother glaring this time; he turned his back on Draco, which was sufficiently rude. Draco turned back and smiled at the potion, unable to let Theo's antics upset him now that he understood the problem.

The potion would slowly change from color to color, according to its description, and clump before it did so. Draco had thought the change would take a shorter time than it evidently had, and Theo had followed his lead without thinking about it from the commonsensical perspective of a Potions master, which meant never reacting fast or slowly, but as the situation demanded. The potion was congealing now.

Changing.

Draco leaned back on an imaginary wall and smirked. It would still be a few days before they could use the potion on Sandborn, but he could imagine it working now, instead of admitting that he'd made a mistake.

_Will Potter notice, I wonder?_

He shook his head in amusement at himself, that it was Potter's attention he thought of attracting. Well. So long as he did not forget what was pretense—his "hopeless" love affair with Potter—and what was real—his admiration of Potter's skills and his courage in holding up under Sandborn's domination for so long—it didn't matter.

* * *

"Ginny? Are you all right?"

Ginny coughed and picked herself up. She reckoned that walking into a wall because you were preoccupied with the story on the newspaper's front page would make enough of an impression to catch even Luna's attention.

"Fine," she called, and stepped around the corner from the drawing room into the kitchen. "The paper startled me, that's all."

Luna looked up, dreamy-eyed, from where she was feeding a blue dove by hand. A ring of tiny winged unicorns flew around her head. Ginny privately thought they should have been golden, to represent the brilliance of her thoughts. "Startling," she said. "We have no animal specifically devoted to startling someone."

"We don't _need _one, either," Ginny said firmly, before Luna could get any ideas. "Anyway. Look at the front page." Luna's reaction would confirm whether or not she was dreaming.

Luna looked at the story, and then nodded. "Oh, yes," she said. "I expected it."

"You _did_?" Ginny knew that her lover had lots of insights that would never occur to anyone else, but she usually shared them with Ginny before they came out like this. "Harry was here last week, and I didn't see anything—"

"Oh, not with this specific person." Luna reached down, picked up some coated seeds, and made low, cooing sounds at the dove. It pecked up more seeds and listened carefully to her. They were trying to decide which voice to give it. So far, Luna, unexpectedly conventional, favored the mourning dove's call, but Ginny wanted to go with the nightingale's song for variety. "But with someone. Those questions about honesty, the way Harry's hands danced. They didn't shout out to you that he was in love?"

"With Callia, I thought," Ginny muttered, and went back to looking at the photograph.

The photograph on the front of the paper was taken at a Ministry gala, with bunting on the walls and well-dressed drunken people in the background. Then again, most of the pictures Ginny saw of Harry were taken at places like these, unless he was stepping out of a building covered in ashes and blood, an unconscious Dark wizard draped over his shoulder. That wasn't the part that had surprised her.

No, it was the part where Draco Malfoy leaned forwards, his soul in his eyes as he gazed soppily after Harry. And Harry, who had his arm around someone—probably Callia—who kept ducking beyond the border of the photograph, only stared away from Malfoy about a quarter of the time. The rest, he looked over his shoulder at him, his eyes sharp and speculative.

The headline was _POTTER-MALFOY LOVE AFFAIR!_

"More like potential love affair," Ginny muttered. She was sure she would have heard of it if Harry had a reason to seriously fancy Malfoy.

But she wondered if even Harry knew how much potential was in his eyes.

* * *

Turn the lockpicks. Slowly. Slowly. Listen to the tumblers. Listen to the soft hiss of the wards, which she hadn't been able to disarm and which would go off when the lock clicked open. She would have to move, fast, and her head spun and her heels sparked with the brilliance of it.

The tumblers clicked.

Two lines of yellow light sprang into being behind her and cut sharply inwards to the door.

But Daphne was already gone, springing and spinning and somersaulting into the room, where she undid the lock with one hand and slammed the door with another. The wards found the door shut and the lock once more engaged, and didn't bother checking to see if anyone else had entered. They settled down, and she heard the hiss of their disappearance a moment later.

Daphne leaned back, grinning and panting, and looked around the Ministry's Archives.

She had never broken into them before. That was what had made her agree to accept the job from Draco. They were _interesting, _the things he asked her to steal.

Of course, she would ensure that she had the Galleons in hand before she left the country. Friendship couldn't be stolen, gratitude and debts were nice to have in one's possession, but money made a sweet sound that Daphne had grown accustomed to hearing. And she had already stolen the contract for him, already done her part to get out of the debt that she owed Potter.

She stood up, stretched, and began to move down the aisles. Polished wooden and stone shelves gleamed at her, filled with books and scrolls and ledgers and jars and wax tablets and clay tablets and etched pieces of marble. Some wizarding civilizations had had odd ideas about the best way to record their history and valuable truths. Daphne looked longingly at a strip of blue dragonhide with runes etched on it. She knew a collector who would have paid a full year's worth of fine meals for that.

But no, she had to focus. She turned forwards and saw the wide aisle that Draco had told her to expect, with the low bank of shelves in the middle of it. Here were kept the Death Eaters' testimonies and other documents relating to the war. All of them, thank Merlin, were in simple scrolls that would be easy to carry.

Daphne smiled when she saw the wards that glowed around their corners. These, she would have to disarm, but she knew how to do so. She used a silver needle to prick her finger and draw a drop of blood. Then she took out a vial from her pocket that had a single drop clinging, still liquid thanks to the spells in the vial, to the crystal facets. She opened the vial, placed her own drop inside, capped it again, and shook them long enough for the properties of the separate drops to thoroughly mingle into one another. Then she knelt and poured them into midair, over the wards that gleamed above the scrolls.

The wards flickered, guttered like candles that someone had snuffed, and then went out. Daphne rolled her eyes as she put the vial back in her pocket. Very romantic, of course, to use your hero's blood to guard the records of the war he had helped to stop, and also very satisfactory, in the narrative sense, to decree that the wards could only be nullified by his blood mingling with an accused Death Eater's.

Not very practical, though, not when the hero was working with the accused Death Eaters.

Daphne settled down to an enjoyable afternoon of gathering both the necessary record and the information she would read in the course of her search, information that would surely become important gossip later, once she reached the Continent.

* * *

"Potter."

Sandborn's voice had a world of meaning in it—cold meaning, and cold purpose. Harry rose to his feet from behind his desk and nodded to Ron. Ron looked worried. Of course he did, Harry thought somewhere in the depths of his first soul, trying to summon the compassion that rightfully belonged to the second. Sandborn sent his lackeys to fetch Harry, he didn't come himself.

"It will be fine," Harry said, as if his wish could change the future.

But Ron had had plenty of chances to believe in the past few years that it could. He settled down with a smile for Harry, and Harry returned it and faced Sandborn, trying not to let his heartbeat race out of control.

Why? What did someone with his first soul, the obedient servant of the Ministry, have to fear? Nothing, Harry reminded himself. Nothing at all. He inclined his head to Sandborn, inviting him to go in front.

Sandborn went, but with a glance full of heavy meaning back at Harry. Harry chose not to understand it. He nodded one more time at Ron and then followed the Minister.

They walked towards his office in the middle of freezing silence. Harry moved without consideration for the stares they attracted. They would always attract stares. The Ministry, which meant the public, would always gossip about the Minister and the star Auror being seen together. Accepting those stares and doing nothing to refute the gossip unless it was actively harmful was one of the prices that Harry had paid to Sandborn years ago.

Sandborn turned around when they entered a small corridor, still far from his office. Harry stood and watched him, letting nothing show in his face, because there was nothing to show. His first soul wouldn't find this strange, or feel a reason to show uneasiness. If he _had _such a reason, he would take care to make sure that Sandborn didn't know about it.

"No one can hear us here," Sandborn said.

Harry nodded. "Did you want to talk to me about Madam Rettern, sir?" Sandborn had accepted Harry's explanation of Rettern's refusal without surprise, and Harry had taken care to hint that he had seen no signs of Alex Spender's work, but might need to return again to check. That provided both the opportunity to curb Rettern if he had to, and a chance to go back if she summoned him again.

_Don't think about that now. It belongs to—_

Harry paused, confounded. His first soul was loyal to the Ministry. His second soul was for his friends, and he couldn't count the Slytherins among his friends. Not yet. But his third soul was private. Where did his activities to free himself belong? To which part of himself?

"What do you know about this?"

Harry looked up, and felt a swift chill pass through him. Sandborn held a half-full bottle of purple potion.


	12. The Importance of a Second

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twelve—The Importance of a Second_

Harry thought he was frozen too long, staring at the potion, although he genuinely didn't know what it was for. Sandborn seemed content to wait, though. A small, hard smile pricked up the corners of his mouth, and his fingers flexed and then closed around the bottle with a predator's cold patience.

"I don't know what sort of potion it is," Harry said at last, and honestly as far as he knew. "Is someone trying to poison you, sir?"

"I found it concealed in my office," Sandborn said. "Specifically, where it would have slowly turned into a gas under the pressure of a spell on the bottle's mouth and then spread throughout the room. It was a sophisticated setup, the sort of trick that would occur to a Potions master or perhaps his apprentice, but no one else."

Harry shook his head. "I don't count Potions masters among my close personal friends," he murmured. In truth, he had stayed away from the brewers in the Ministry more out of busyness with work than anything else, but it made a convenient cover to pretend that his memories of Snape, for good or evil, were too strong, and he avoided them for that reason. "I wouldn't know."

"You _must _know," Sandborn said, and his eyes were on fire now. Harry hadn't seen him this close to losing control since the day he summoned Harry to first speak about Rettern's investigation. That made his instincts stir. _Could this be related to whatever else worried him then? Not the fact of the potion, but something delicate he's handling that the potion might disrupt? _"You must know what this is about, because we found your lover's magical signature on it."

Harry stared at him. "_Callia _tried to assassinate you? Really?" He could picture her going after Malfoy, but not Sandborn, not unless she really thought that she had been allowed to date Harry and wear his engagement ring with Sandborn's approval. And even then, Harry didn't think she had the sort of pride to be harmed by such a thing.

"Do not be more of a fool than you are." Sandborn glared at him, eyes maddened. "Malfoy. It was Malfoy."

Strangely, the first thing it occurred to Harry to say was _He wouldn't leave his magical signature on the bottle like that unless he intended for it to be found. _But he would hardly give Malfoy away to Sandborn when they were _hoping _that something like this would happen, so he shook his head. "Malfoy's not my lover."

"_Yet_," said a bright voice beyond Harry. "He means to add _yet._"

Harry spun around, his hand already on his wand, and found Malfoy there, his hands clasped behind his back as he regarded Harry with a blatantly greedy gaze. Harry shuddered a little as Malfoy swept his eyes up and down his body. Then Malfoy came a step closer and reached out to put a hand on his shoulder.

Sandborn's voice stopped them as effectively as a brandished sword. "Malfoy? You will explain yourself."

Malfoy pulled his hand back slowly, holding Harry's eyes. Harry blinked, shaken. He knew the fake, melting warmth in Malfoy's gaze was for the sake of Sandborn, the Aurors, and whoever might watch them in such a delicate moment. But he thought the smile genuine, and the way Malfoy's eyes fastened solely on him, not wavering sideways to Sandborn even when he moved up a step in an attempt to be a credible threat…

Harry didn't know what to do about that, what to think about it. He only knew that it stirred up thoughts that belonged to his third soul—or the nonexistent part of himself that could handle serious thoughts about liberty—if they belonged anywhere. He clenched his hands and looked away.

"Did you have the potion tasted before you began to accuse me, Minister?" Malfoy asked, and now he had warmth in the back of his voice, which could alter at a moment into either teasing or furious heat. _How do I know this? _Harry thought, still looking aside. _I don't know him that well, and I haven't associated with him much since the trial. _"Oh, excuse me, I meant _tested. _Of course."

Sandborn took another step forwards. Harry had last seen the expression on his face when the ambassador from the Bulgarian Minister of Magic explained that they wouldn't be extraditing Bulgarian Death Eaters to England. "The setup marked an assassination ploy," he said, and his sonorous voice dipped for a moment. "Do not tell me that you intended to use it for a potion of _medicinal _value, Malfoy."

"I must admit that I sometimes allow my jealousy to get the better of me," Malfoy said, with a small sigh. "In this case, I came to the Ministry this morning with the intention of admitting everything."

"An Auror stands here," Sandborn said. "I can have him arrest you."

"Not just any Auror," Malfoy said, and the warmth in his voice had taken an unexpected direction. Harry looked at him, because he _had _to, more or less, and found Malfoy considering him with eyes that…Harry had never had someone look at him like that. And because he really _didn't _know Malfoy so well, he didn't know whether half the emotion there was genuine. "A special one. And that's the whole point."

Harry felt shaken when Malfoy's attention turned away from him, as though solid floor had crumbled beneath his feet. He held his breath for a moment and refused to look at anyone until he thought he had it back under control. This was…too strange.

"Explain yourself now, Malfoy." Sandborn had gained control of his voice again. This was the one he used to make speeches about unpopular new laws, to soothe the small minds listening to him that everything was all right and their lives would continue without cease, without interruption. "You drop hints without explaining what your potion was meant to do. I know you are more than intelligent enough to do so."

That was another technique that had won Sandborn followers over the years, Harry thought, keeping his face turned away. Sandborn addressed his enemies and the uncertain factions that eddied and flowed behind him as if they were intelligent. And they tried to prove that they were, that they were worthy of his regard.

Harry's cheeks warmed. They reacted much the same way that he reacted before the silent demand of Malfoy's attention, in fact.

He turned back in time to see Malfoy give Sandborn a slow, sleepy smile. Lizards had used smiles like that in the dawn of the world to make their prey think they were asleep, Harry decided. _Big _lizards.

"An impotence potion," Malfoy murmured.

Harry could have bottled the silence that followed to sell at Wizengamot meetings. They always liked a bit of a dramatic pause before they began their speeches, or whatever else it was they were doing today.

"Why in the world," Sandborn began, and then he stopped. He was regarding Malfoy with an entirely new look in his eyes now. Harry blinked, and then recognized it. Sandborn had used it when it turned out that one of his political opponents had had his mind so twisted by Dark magic he began to spout inanities in public. "You must realize that if you told anyone about this, you would be the one humiliated, not me."

Malfoy's smile deepened. "You assume there is value only in public actions," he said. "It's one of the qualities that I've always noticed about you, Minister."

He didn't need to use a verb other than "noticed"; his tone made it obvious in what way he regarded it. Sandborn's hands closed down on his wand, which he'd drawn without Harry seeing more than a flicker of motion. Then he slipped it back into the concealed sleeve sling that he usually kept it in and started healing the conversation, since at the moment it lay wounded in the middle of the floor.

"Malfoy. There is no reason for us to be enemies. I understand the value of pure-blood interests and participation in the wizarding community. I pride myself on having attained a majority of the pure-blood vote in the last election, in fact. And I have _noticed _that you attend Ministry galas frequently."

Malfoy folded his arms and cocked his head, grinning. "Another thing I know about you is that you assume each person is one thing, and one thing only, loyal to a single identity."

Sandborn leaned forwards slightly, shifting his weight from one leg to another. Harry thought, briefly, of the abandoned boy he had been seven years ago, who either never would have noticed the movement in time or never would have read the expressions and the nuances of the words correctly. "You would know something about that, I presume," he said. "Since you have created a new identity for yourself in the wake of your father's mistakes."

"Yes," Malfoy said, and bowed his head in sorrow so perfectly feigned that Harry didn't know it was feigned until he looked up again and showed his blazing grin. "They were tragic. And buried with him."

Sandborn's nostrils flared. Harry didn't think he knew he had the habit of acting as if he would draw in an enemy's scent and learn more about them that way. "Perhaps not so buried," he said. "Some secrets stink beyond the grave."

"And some don't, because we expose them to the open air," Malfoy said promptly, then looked at Harry with soulful eyes.

Harry bit back the laughter so savagely he choked. Surely Malfoy had to realize that Sandborn _would _see through the act? He wouldn't be able to complain, later, that it was Harry who had overacted and betrayed them.

"Don't look at me that way, Malfoy," he said, which was both the way he would react if he didn't know Malfoy's deception and the way he felt at the moment. He wondered idly how many other times truth and lies would be tangled for him over the next few months, then dismissed the thought. It wasn't as though he had never been in this position before.

"But you don't know what it does to me when you breathe like that."

Malfoy dropped the grin as he spoke. Instead, it was his eyes that blazed, straight and hard into the center of Harry's soul. Harry fell back a step from him, and it was no feigned reaction. He felt…he felt…

The way he had when Malfoy stood in his house nearly a week ago and looked at him with approval, sometimes, or at least attention. Harry could feel his heart clench, slowly, like a snake engulfing a mouse.

He would do a lot to have that attention again, more to have the approval.

But he didn't know _why, _and unplanned reactions didn't fit with the game they'd adopted. Harry mastered himself and let his eyelids droop, let his head turn away as though he had figured out Malfoy's game. "Callia would ask you not to flirt in this disgraceful manner," he murmured. "And because she is the epitome of grace for me, and teaches me more politeness than I ever knew, I would ask you the same thing."

"Flirting," Malfoy repeated thoughtfully. "I don't like the word. It has an undertone of _teasing, _the inherent assumption that one doesn't intend to fulfill the promises that one makes. And I assure you, Harry, I mean every word I say."

Harry had mastered his reactions this time, even the unexpected jump in his throat that came from hearing Malfoy use his first name. He met his eyes with nothing more than a small smile, turned his head away, and said, "I think we should let the Minister decide your punishment, since he was the one you chose to use the impotence potion on. For someone who prides himself on his clarity of vision and his precise definitions, you were neither clear nor precise this time. Minister?"

Sandborn was watching both of them, of course, and Harry had to hope that his own steps of the performance were perfect. Malfoy's had been. But then again, he was a Slytherin born, and from the way he spoke to his friends the other night, he had practice in flirtations he didn't mean.

"Of course," Sandborn said. "I will depart from a practice I tend to respect with former Slytherins, then, and ask you a direct question, Mr. Malfoy. Why _did _you use the potion on me, rather than on Harry, so that he couldn't take up any liaisons you disapproved of?"

Harry suppressed the flinch in the center of his back that came from hearing his first name from _Sandborn, _and glanced at Malfoy.

Malfoy hadn't looked away from him. Harry melted the flush that tried to mount his cheeks. He would be more careful in the future. He hadn't known Malfoy would resort to such direct tactics. Then again, Malfoy had no reason to fear Sandborn.

_At the moment. If Sandborn thinks that imprisoning him again is a good measure…_

The impulse to shove his wand under the Minister's chin if he tried any such thing flashed through him and surprised Harry.

"It surely _ought _to be obvious," Malfoy said, and since he didn't take his eyes off Harry, Harry had the feeling that Malfoy was addressing him as well as Sandborn. "You spend more time with Harry than anyone else, even his partner." The wry twist to his mouth when he said the word _partner _was just right, Harry thought, as he tried to convince himself to look at this from a rational distance. "I would think that you might know some things about him that only _certain _people should know." Now he glanced at Sandborn, and the brightness of his smile was a glint like a jewel tossed in the air. "This potion was to make sure you don't exercise that knowledge."

_Are you insane? _Harry wanted to ask. _Do you think this is a good move? I thought we agreed that we would pretend to be hopelessly in love and coming around to the idea, respectively, but we never said anything about you attacking the Minister._

Malfoy's gaze had returned to him, and in the serenity of his eyes, Harry could read the response to every question.

_Relax. Let me handle it. _

Malfoy had said in their conversation at Harry's house that the task of getting them out of this situation without the Slytherins being retried was his, after all. Somehow Harry had thought it would involve less madness.

"Surely you ought to know," Sandborn said, stretching the words as if he thought longer vowel sounds would render them more acceptable to Malfoy, "that Auror Potter is engaged to be married. I would not encourage him to be unfaithful to his fiancée."

Malfoy blinked once, then let his mouth round out. "Oh! _That's _the difference between us, then. I thought there was one."

Sandborn lowered his head. Harry knew that gesture, too; it protected his throat, although he had never followed it with a punch or a lash of his wand that Harry could see. It was the significance of the gesture in Sandborn's personal collection that made Harry's eyes follow it, not the consequences.

"You can't tell me," Malfoy continued in a querulous voice, "that when he looks at you like _that, _he lacks a romantic interest in you."

Harry had no idea which one of them Malfoy thought he was talking to, but the point was that it made Harry look at him, and then Malfoy caught him in a ferocious gaze and wouldn't let him go. He had wondered aloud about Harry's acting skill, but he was the actor par excellence, Harry thought. His eyes really looked like the eyes of an outraged lover. He had one hand on his hip, the other clenched in the air as though he missed the feeling of something he usually held. And those eyes, the pulling, burning _intensity _of them…

Harry did turn away, then, because he had no idea of what would happen if he kept looking.

He turned into a trap, into Sandborn's gaze. "Harry?" he asked, mild as could be and dangerous with it. "_Has _this man encouraged you to be unfaithful to Callia?"

_And this is why you can't let yourself fall for Malfoy's act, _Harry told himself sharply, and pulled his first soul forwards again to seat it primly behind his eyes. _It'll make you weak, and worse, when you deal with Sandborn. _Luckily, the first soul contained enough experience of the cold, crystalline world he inhabited when dealing with Sandborn to let him answer with the right twist in his voice.

"No, sir," he said. "He has attempted it, yes. But for him to succeed in his encouragement, I would have to find him alluring."

"I saw the way you look at me," Malfoy said. "Or should I say I see it, because you can't keep yourself from turning to me with it in your eyes every moment we're alone?"

_Damn it, damn it, too close, _Harry thought, the pulse in his throat beating faster. He brought his head down to conceal it, which Sandborn could read as a defensive gesture if he wished. At the moment, Harry knew less harm would come of Sandborn suspecting his irritation than of Sandborn seeing how much Malfoy's words affected him.

"Do you see his arrogance, sir?" he asked Sandborn quietly. "Do you see the way he flaunts his attempts to engage my attention, caring about not even the normal proprieties that are supposed to be important to pure-bloods? Callia is everything he's not, delicate and cool and serene. I won't look at someone like him."

"Just for that, I'll make you beg," Malfoy murmured thoughtfully.

Lightning flared and tightened in Harry's gut. They hadn't discussed this. He hadn't known that Malfoy would speak like this, act like this, shove his supposed sexual attraction so close to the front of their interaction and hold it there.

For years, Harry had interacted with people he understood. Sandborn. The other Aurors. His friends. The Wizengamot members who believed him totally Sandborn's creature. The heads of various Departments who believed much the same thing, or else were Sandborn's allies and had no reason to try and turn Harry against him. Harry had begun to suspect how badly he dealt with people outside the world of the contract and his three souls when he spoke with Rettern. But ultimately, he understood her, too. She wanted certain things from him, and would try to trick them out of him when she didn't get them.

But Malfoy…

His words cut too deep. He had promised Harry that he would make gestures in the air and on the surface only, but he had plunged his knives between Harry's ribs, instead.

But Harry's reaction was complicated by the fact that he knew that his response to Malfoy's words was the problem. Malfoy hadn't set out to trick or arouse him. Harry was doing that to himself.

So he flicked his wand silently against his arm where it rested in his sleeve and cast a charm that he hated using, because most of the time his control was good enough that he didn't need to, and he knew he was dangerously slipping when he required it. It numbed his mind, cast the emotions to a distance and made them unimportant. He looked at Malfoy, and knew his eyes were liquid with indifference.

"You can try," he murmured. "But I don't think that I would beg for anything you could offer me. Or accept it if you were to offer it."

Malfoy reacted to that. And not in the way he expected.

* * *

Draco recognized the echoes of the cold magic in the air, and choked on his tongue, though luckily he managed to keep the choking beneath the surface, where it belonged, and away from Sandborn's eyes. Potter had chosen _that _spell? Draco thought it of all those he knew least suited to a Gryffindor's fiery, impetuous nature. Even one like Potter who had changed and disguised his nature as much as he had in these last few years.

Plus, it was stupid. Repeated use could stretch the recovery from the spell out from hours to months to years.

It was annoying to realize that Potter might not have the acting skill that Draco had thought he had, only his spell-assisted coldness, and that meant Draco had wrongly praised him to Pansy. Pansy would kill him when she found out, or change the direction of her torments. Draco hated lying to his friends when he didn't get anything out of it.

And so he leaned forwards, ignoring Sandborn's tense, curious half-motions, and asked, "What is it about me that makes you nervous, Potter?"

It was a question for the pretense and a real one both at once, and Potter was smart enough to know that. He brought his head down further, defending his throat and hiding his pulse, and Draco admired his economy of motion.

"Why, nothing, Malfoy," Potter said. Of course he had to say that, Draco thought, his ears sifting hard through the subtleties and shimmers of the words, but he meant it, too. That was different. "What you can offer doesn't tempt me. The spells you can cast won't stand up to an Auror's training. You have yet to sufficiently explain why you foisted an impotence potion on Minister Sandborn, but then, sufficient explanations aren't much a part of your life."

_Little idiot. Doesn't he understand that the way he responds to the lures I throw out there are as much a part of his escape as the ways that we hold back and fool the Minister?_

Well, no, Draco understood a moment later, the comprehension raking his mind like the claws of a diving osprey. Of course not. Potter still thought all plans were precise and beautiful and _frozen_, because that was the way he had lived in the past few years. He knew how to improvise, but even the improvisations came from a limited bag of tricks, proceeded along a limited number of tracks. He didn't realize that the lively interplay Draco had intended to set up between them would, like all living things, change.

It was more important, at the moment, that Potter understand this than that they go on perfectly fooling Sandborn. Besides, the potion had done its real work. Draco let the mask drop for the moment.

"I can make you beg," he whispered. "For pleasures that you've never felt. For delights that you don't know exist yet. For a glance from my eyes. But never for pain. I would never hurt you. You've had enough of pain in your life."

Potter understood that much. Of course. But it didn't, couldn't, prevent the fear that cracked the surface of his spell, at least until he clasped his hands behind his back, half-bowed his head to Draco, and turned away. "I can escort him from the building, Minister, if you wish," he said.

"I don't think that would be wise," Sandborn said. Draco could hear a dragging slur on a few of the words, and smiled. The potion, when tested, would show as an impotence potion. That was planned. But it did something else, something that it would take Sandborn months to feel the full effects of. "No, not wise at all. Call other Aurors to do it."

"All right," Potter said, and he glanced at Draco once more before he turned away.

It was no more than he had done that night at the Ministry gala, playing to the crowd, doing exactly as they should. And Draco knew that was good in its fashion. If they could convince Sandborn that Potter was acting more slowly or differently or both because he was affected by Draco's pretended love, then that would mean that he would attribute any changes he saw in his prize Auror to that, not to Potter gradually breaking free of him.

But in Potter's eyes, Draco saw something else, something that made him content to wait for the Aurors to escort him from the Ministry.

It was—not trust, but a longing to trust. A longing to put down fear and accept what Draco offered.

Whatever that was.

_Gryffindors were always good at impulse, _Draco thought as he walked out of the Ministry. He wanted another glance with Potter, but he was good at putting aside his wants when necessary. _And Slytherins, excellent teachers of the need to accept those impulses._

The world could change in a second.

And because of an embrace of an offer as much as because of the offer itself.


	13. Two Evenings of Talk

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Thirteen—Two Evenings of Talk_

"All right, mate, are you going to tell me what's really going on?"

Ron leaned forwards across the table, his hand clenched on his Firewhisky. Harry grimaced and shrugged, looking around the Leaky Cauldron. No one was watching them, but that didn't mean much. His conversations, even in private places with the most trusted of friends, had a way of ending up on the front page of the _Prophet _the next morning anyway.

_And you're unused to that? You know that you can still play to fool Ron and the others, as long as you need to. It's only around the Slytherins that you might need to change your tactics, or care what people say about you._

Strangely, that bothered Harry instead of comforting him. Probably because he had had seen what real, honest friendship could be like between the Slytherins, and why should he and Ron have less than that?

But he wasn't going to tell the story of the contract in a public place, either. So he turned back to Ron, raised an eyebrow, and asked, "What are you talking about? The way that Sandborn is treating me, or the thing with Malfoy, or something else?" He pretended to take a swallow of his Firewhisky. He was an expert in making it look like he was swallowing all sorts of alcohol, and then casting a discreet Vanishing Charm at the end of the evening. He didn't _like _doing it, precisely, but he would have liked losing control in front of someone else even less.

"The thing with Malfoy." Ron's Firewhisky banged the table when it hit, and it looked as though his eyebrows were trying to twist themselves inside out when he scowled at Harry. "You can't—the way it looked in the paper—Ginny said that Luna said that you looked as if you were _encouraging _him."

Harry snorted. "I highly doubt that that's what Luna said," he muttered. "But I know that only Ginny can translate successfully from Luna-speak."

Ron stared at him expectantly, not touching his drink now. That meant it was serious.

Harry ducked his head and let himself fall fiercely into his second soul, leaving behind the doubts that plagued him about Malfoy, his friendships with the other Slytherins, and the game they were all playing. "It's not serious," he said. "But I think that sometimes I'm getting _bored _with life. Even our cases seem too safe lately, you know? And my marriage with Callia is going to be nice and safe and calm and quiet. Of course that's what I want. I don't really want to spend the rest of my life running from Dark wizards or someone like Voldemort." It had taken Ron six years, but he no longer flinched at the name, instead watching Harry as if he waited for something more than this. "But sometimes it feels as if I could add a bit of excitement and spark. And pretending that Malfoy attracts me adds that."

Ron leaned in until their noses were nearly touching. Harry frowned at him and wondered if he'd underestimated how drunk Ron was.

"Mate," Ron whispered. "Is your engagement with Callia _that _boring? I didn't realize—I mean, you sound happy when you talk about her."

_Shit. _Harry took a long drink of Firewhisky for real this time, because he was going to need the courage. His life was already spinning with too many complications. _All _he needed now was his friends figuring out that some parts of his life might be less genuine than they appeared. Ron would dig out of curiosity and concern for him, and Hermione would add to that her determination never to let anything interesting go, and Luna would add insights that Ginny would listen to, and—

And his own near-hopeless feeling of being drawn to Malfoy in the Ministry corridor earlier would coat everything with stiffening slime, and force him to dance in patterns that he hadn't chosen and couldn't anticipate.

"I love Callia," he said. "I honestly do, Ron. Can you see me agreeing to marry her if I didn't?" He gave his best friend an indulgent, impatient smile, the one he had perfected over the past few years. Ron and Hermione both thought that he had grown up at last, with just enough rebellion left in him to make him believable, but Harry had taken care to make them believe that his core values hadn't changed. Wanting someone he loved was one of those values.

"Well…no," Ron conceded. "But then, why aren't you just telling Malfoy he has no chance and driving him away?" He paused to take another drink. "I didn't even realize that you liked men."

"It's not men," Harry said. "It's not even him. I don't think for one tick that he's serious." Another wrinkle to add to the complications, but then again, the crowd Malfoy was playing for didn't include Ron. "And I don't think for one second that I'm serious about accepting him, either. But…it's something different. I'm a bit nervous about the wedding. I always wanted true love, you know, like my Mum and Dad had? And I wonder if she's the right one."

Ron was grinning at him a second later, reaching out to squeeze his wrist. "Of course. I should have realized. I felt the same way right before I married Hermione." He leaned nearer still and lowered his voice, as though he assumed some reporter was lurking in the Cauldron who would want to report on this specifically. "But, mate? It might not feel this way at first, tying yourself to someone permanently, but it is _so _worth it."

Harry smiled and nodded. "I'm sure you're right," he said, and then he managed to turn the conversation in another direction.

But that night in bed, lying alone with his arms folded behind his head and his third soul the foremost one, he wondered how long the lie would fool Ron. He wondered if he _wanted _to fool Ron anymore.

_Well, for a while. He would explode if he found out how long I'd been lying, and it would be hard to deal with that right now, given everything else that's happening._

Harry stirred restlessly and turned over, shaking his head. He wondered when he had started thinking like this, exclusively cold and practical. Of course he knew _why _he had started it, and he knew he had committed himself to the deception because deception was the only way that he would ever get it done. His friends had to think that he _wanted _to work with Sandborn and act more mature than he had in Hogwarts, for the same reasons that they had to think he wanted to be an Auror. It wasn't possible to have everything he wanted under the contract and also have friends questioning his every move.

But his mind had chilled along the way, his soul had split into three parts, and he wondered if he was willing to pay that price anymore.

_You'll have to continue paying it for the foreseeable future, _he answered himself briskly. _You were the one who got yourself into this fix, the one who chose to lie to your friends and all the rest of it. Malfoy and the other Slytherins are trying to get you out, but for that to happen, they need you to do what they tell you and not mess everything up._

Harry fell asleep with a small, bitter smile after that thought. If it was one thing he'd got good at over the past seven years, it was doing as he was told.

* * *

"And this was something you intended to happen, I suppose?"

"You needn't demonstrate how you can keep coming through my wards, Daphne," Draco murmured, his eyes still closed. He'd had a dream about being honored as the hero of the wizarding world for freeing Harry Potter from Sandborn's clutches, and he wanted to hold on to the fading sound of the cheers. "I believe in your skills now."

"That's nice," Daphne said. "But you would oblige me best by strengthening your wards so that they actually afford me some practice."

Draco sighed and opened his eyes. Daphne sat on the foot of his bed, peeling an orange. She shot him an amused glance when his stomach rumbled and placed a delicate quarter of the fruit into her mouth, closing her eyes for a moment.

"Late night?" she murmured without opening them. "I did look for you to give you my news then, but you seem to have crash-landed in the soup by the time I reached you."

"The house-elves would whisk the soup away before that could happen." Draco sat up and spent a few moments cleaning sleep from the corners of his eyes with whispered Vanishing Charms. Then he faced Daphne and nodded. "All right, you can speak your news and hand over the document at any time."

Daphne suspended her orange to smile at him. "How do you know that I got the document you wanted? Perhaps the wards at the Archives defeated me. Perhaps they changed the way they were guarding them, and Potter's information was no longer current."

"You wouldn't be here if that was true," Draco said comfortably. "We would have heard of some mysterious death or accident at the Archives, and then you would have taken the place of the first person who came running to investigate it."

Daphne laughed and toasted him with the orange. "I'll remember that you think I'm that good. It'll be fun, someday, to convince you that _your _information is outdated."

Draco waited patiently, hands locked together behind his head now. Let Daphne play her teasing games. They were rather like the ones that he would need to play with Sandborn after the potion began to work—and even after, because of the nature of this particular potion. They were the toys of an expert, the claws that could not be lightly escaped. Daphne was worth every Galleon he had paid for her skills.

When she had finished the orange, dried her hands on a small towel that one of Draco's elves thoughtfully popped up to provide for her, and then drunk part of a glass of water, Daphne produced the document Draco had sent her to retrieve. She did it with a flourishing motion that meant she could either have magically summoned it from somewhere or simply taken it from her clothes with a sleight-of-hand trick. Draco snorted and accepted it, flipping it open.

He sighed when he saw the list of names. "Yes," he whispered. "I wasn't sure they would have bothered keeping it, when they must know that it was vulnerable to kidnapping like this."

"There is no one like La Vie Dangereuse," said Daphne simply. "They couldn't have anticipated that I would show up and breach their security." She paused to take another drink of water. "And I also think that they wanted the list for blackmail purposes. The Ministry doesn't destroy anything they think might benefit them."

Draco grunted agreement and carefully read through the names—the names of those who had been ready to give testimony in the lengthy trials against him and his friends that had never happened. He had thought at the time that the Wizengamot's lack of evidence combined with Potter's standing up for them made the prospect of the trials uncomfortable. Now, of course, he knew that Potter's bargain with Sandborn had circumvented the whole process.

Which was as it should be. Draco would not have liked to spent that much time crouching in a cell at Azkaban, fearing that someone else would decide his fate.

Still, he wished he had known about the debt earlier than this. He would not have suffered Potter to spend so much time sinking into the emotional ice that it was better left up to the Slytherins to navigate.

"Thank you," he told Daphne at last, snapping the sheet closed and tapping his wrist thoughtfully with it. "I only have to figure out how to use this now, and the wizarding world can explode into flames."

Daphne smiled, her knees looped up to her chin and her arms dangling around them as she watched him. "Are you really going to do something that public?" she mused. "I was under the impression that you wanted to lay silent, invisible pressure on Sandborn and the Wizengamot until they did things your way."

Draco waved a hand. "Some of the pressure is invisible and silent, but why not give everyone flames that they can watch, so they won't look for the quieter threats?"

"I approve, of course." Daphne stretched her arms over her head and then let them fall back to her sides. Draco watched her eyes shine. So much more brilliant and alive than Potter's, he thought, but he looked forward to bringing out the light in Potter's that much more. "Do you know, I sometimes think that I should tell Astoria about me, but I am afraid that she might say what I do is too flashy. Too _common_."

Draco blinked. "How can it to be too flashy when no one has ever connected you and the name of La Vie Dangereuse?"

Daphne gave him a small smile. "The tricks that I use," she said simply. "The fact that I pursue valuable but also high-profile objects, like this list of names. And the magic I use. No, they may not be able to figure out that it was me or how I did it, but they always know that someone was there." She paused and cocked her head to the side. "I'll be interested to see how you create this distraction and how Astoria reacts. I may reveal myself to her, depending on what she thinks of it."

Draco squeezed her arm. "I would be proud to have a sister like you, if my parents had ever decided that I was to have a sibling. Yes, watch her if you must, but don't forget that you have charms to offer beyond your simple thieving abilities. I would never ask you to do this if I didn't have confidence in you."

"Thank you," Daphne said simply, and squeezed his hand back before she stood up and made her way out of the room. Draco didn't watch her go. He had to admit, some of the mystery and excitement in his life was preserved by not knowing exactly how she got through his wards.

It was only later that he realized a silver ring he'd been wearing on his right hand was gone, and had been gone since she squeezed it. The ring was set with diamonds, and had a few etchings of interest to pure-blood collectors, and by now it was undoubtedly sitting on such a collector's mantelpiece in France.

She had stolen it to see what he would do, of course. Draco smiled, and did nothing about that particular object. He had no interest in interfering with Daphne's chances of persuading her sister to accept her career, or in outing her too early.

Besides, by then he had more than enough else to concern him.

* * *

"Madam Rettern."

This time, Astoria was there when the old bird summoned Potter. She sat silent and motionless under a Disillusionment Charm in a corner of the room where they met, one of the Wizengamot's safehouses. She hoped that by watching them together, she could let Rettern know when Potter showed signs of being receptive to her offers and when she should back off and let him alone.

Potter took Rettern's hand in a polite gesture and gave it an absurdly polite kiss. His stride was smooth and confident. He had none of the boiling trouble in his eyes that Astoria had seen when she spoke to him in his house. He took a seat and accepted the tea that Rettern offered him, and listened politely as she moved through her opening gambits.

Rettern used the normal bribes that would work so well on so many, her voice soft and persuasive as water dripping onto stone. Potter pretended to sip the tea—his motions were deceptive and practiced, but Astoria sat at an angle where she could watch how full his cup remained—and listened without comment.

"I can promise you one thing that no one else can," Rettern said at last, and Potter gave her a meaningless smile. Astoria shook her head. She didn't know what to make of Potter's particular brand of stoic acting. Most people would either show some real interest or some feigned to get Rettern off their backs. Potter wrapped himself in indifference and sat there. It made Astoria wonder what he _did _want, other than perhaps an end to the contract—which he would not have sought if Draco hadn't thought they should pay their debt—and if the faculty of wishing was dead in him.

If it was, then she would have to tell Draco as well as Rettern to be careful around him.

"What is that?" Potter asked, when he seemed to realize that Rettern wanted a genuine answer, not simply passive receptivity.

"Peace," Rettern said. "If you will do one thing, and one thing only, for me during the investigation, then I will call in favors from the Wizengamot and ensure that you are not required to speak or act in public again for the rest of your life."

Potter's hand trembled on the cup. He stilled it at once, so fast that Rettern might not have noticed. But Astoria did.

She narrowed her eyes, but made no movement, including the light scratch on the cushions that she and Rettern had arranged as a signal that Potter was actually interested. Potter was _too _interested, and this was not a bargain Rettern had told Astoria she would offer. Astoria wanted to be sure, first, that the gift Rettern would give Potter was not inimical to their interests.

"I don't think you understand very well what I mean by peace," Rettern said eagerly, when Potter simply sat there. So perhaps she had noticed his hand tremble after all, Astoria thought. _Damn. _"The Wizengamot's collective power is not often used. But together, we _can _force the papers to stop writing about you in anything other than the most general terms, and reporters to stop pursuing you. Or, at least, we can ensure that there are consequences for doing so. The reporters might spend time in Azkaban."

"I can't ask for that," Potter said, but his voice was weak. "They're just doing their jobs, and sometimes what their editors tell them to do. I can't say my privacy is more important than that, just—just because I want to."

And now he'd betrayed himself. Astoria scratched, because otherwise Rettern would know that she had been holding back with a potential agenda of her own or else think her a simple-minded fool to mistake Potter's obvious yielding. Rettern shot Astoria a bright, narrow smile, and focused on Potter again.

"Aren't you tired?" she whispered. "I know that the work you do for Sandborn, more than anything else, is to act as a public voice for the Ministry. Anyone who listens can know that your smile doesn't reach your eyes, that you speak with a weary tone in your voice, that you say what Sandborn wants you to say and not what you would prefer to. Surely, Auror Potter, _surely _you want a change in that."

"Assuming you were right," Potter said, and he had almost managed to clasp his stoic mask back in place, "why would you let a tool like me escape you? You would probably want to wield me once you had lessened Sandborn's power."

Rettern's smile turned sweet and cutting. "No. I would have no more need of you. I don't keep tools I don't need."

Astoria stared with her mouth open, glad for the charm that prevented anyone from seeing that. She expected Potter to rebel when Rettern admitted that she saw him as a tool. Most people would have. Draco would have, and so would any of the lovers he'd had in the past, including Astoria herself.

But Potter only sat still and watched the Wizengamot member with eyes of ice and iron. And he listened as she explained, telling him soothing lies about the power of the Wizengamot and their ability to control the press, saying that no one would want him anymore when the Ministry that he had made his home fell, pointing out that most of his power now lay in what he had become in the years since the war and not in the defeat of the Dark Lord, which meant that he could count on being left alone by others when the new power was gone.

Potter twitched now and then, his face paling and then flushing, and his hands now and then shook on the cup of tea. They were subtle signals, but Rettern had been in politics for decades and Astoria knew she hadn't missed them. Potter found this seductive, this idea that he could lay down his public mantle and vanish into nothingness—more seductive than the mere idea that he would have the power to define his future.

_Why, _for God's sake?

That was a question Astoria would have to answer, and soon, before their plan to clear their debt to Potter could proceed much further. If Rettern's investigation did not free them of their potential financial troubles, she would also have to come up with another plan to do so.

Astoria was irritated when she left, although of course she did not show it as she bowed to Rettern. Potter was more complicated than she had thought, and she saw little of the acting ability that Draco had claimed he had.

* * *

Harry lay in his bed that night with his eyes closed and a new, sharp pulse beating in his throat.

He knew what Rettern really wanted, of course. That was obvious. He had looked into the eyes of too many people who hated him over the years not to recognize it. She wanted to destroy Sandborn, this was a quest of personal vengeance, and she thought Harry would be her best means of achieving it.

Harry saw no reason to cooperate with her unless she could offer him a gift of equal value. But then she had, and she had even sounded sincere about her ability to provide it, without the telltale signs of a lie that he had been trained to watch for.

It _hurt, _this longing twisting in him like a fishhook. If he could go somewhere that no one knew him, no one would pursue him, and start again, live an utterly ordinary life. His magical abilities weren't beyond the ordinary, as everyone else thought they were, and Rettern was right; he was now more famous for his speeches and his Auror arrests than his scar. Get rid of those, settle somewhere else, and he could have anonymity.

It hurt, too, to think of leaving his friends behind, and it hurt to think of refusing Malfoy. But…

He was so _tired. _And what Malfoy wanted of him would require confrontation, challenge, change. If he could have what he wanted without that, if he could escape...

It was nearly dawn before he fell asleep.


	14. What a Morning

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Fourteen—What a Morning_

When Harry stepped into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement the next morning, he heard the snickers.

He paused and assumed his ice armor, the mask that went thickest and deepest into his divided soul. Then he walked smoothly down the corridor to his office, ignoring the stares that followed him, the half-hidden gestures that he saw easily from the corner of his eye, the stifled grins. He would find out what was going on soon enough. It was probably an announcement in the _Daily Prophet, _which of course he had not read before coming in. His home was a place for his third soul, and never more so than this morning, when he was struggling with the effects of what Rettern had told him.

_She told you nothing important. Nothing special._

Harry narrowed his eyes as though against strong sunlight. That was simply untrue, and one thing he had tried never to do was lie to himself. It was why he had acknowledged last night that he had the impulse to flee from his friends and Malfoy and start over again somewhere else, no matter how ignoble it was.

And he should not be thinking such things here, not when someone could use them to take him off-guard. He opened the door of his office and stepped inside.

"Mate, is it true?"

Ron came to meet him with an ashen face and the paper clutched in his hand, as expected. Harry nodded to him while he hung off his cloak, and summoned his second soul. "Morning, Ron. Is what true? I haven't had a chance to look at the papers yet."

"You _haven't_?" Ron gaped at him for a second, then shook his head. "Of course. I should have realized. I was wrong about that bitch all along, and you were right. You were the one who said that you felt bad about committing to her, right? We all should have known that we could trust your instincts."

_Callia. _Harry was able to take the paper with steady hands, because he now suspected what he would see in the lead article.

Yes. Callia was standing tragically in front of a building that Harry recognized after a few moments' squinting as the division of the nearest library that held information on pure-blood history. She held up a chart that might have been a genealogical one, at least if the lines traced on it were any indication. The headline and the caption beneath the photo, as well as the way that Callia bravely blinked her eyes, announced that she had heard the information about the Potter family's female children and wives dying, and she wanted to be sure of the cure for such things before she married him.

"I never _heard _of that," Ron was voicing indignantly when Harry could pay attention to him again. "Whoever _had_? I think you should confront her, mate! Tell her that she has it wrong and that someone's been lying about you!"

_Someone's been lying about me, all right. _Harry folded the paper down—ramming a crease through the middle of the photograph, which made the Callia in it start and glare at him—and handed it back to Ron. His heart was beating faster than he was accustomed to, and his head was light, his mouth was sour. _I know who it is. I have to decide whether I want to play along with the Slytherins after all, or if their hurting Callia is enough to piss me off too much._

He weighed Rettern's offer in his mind again. Peace and quiet, the chance that he would never have to tell his friends about the contract, and freedom from Sandborn's demands. Speaking up for Callia, or allowing Parkinson's challenge to go ahead unhindered, were both choices that would lead to a lot of shouting in the end, a lot of pain—the pain that he had spent years avoiding and concealing.

But in the end, there was never really any choice, especially because Rettern hadn't told him what she wanted from him in return for her tempting offer. He leaned back and smiled at Ron. "I don't know what she's thinking," he said. "I have to speak with her."

Someone knocked on the office door. Harry turned, and was unsurprised to see another of Sandborn's flunkies standing there, ready to summon him. This wouldn't be about a speaking engagement, he surmised. Sandborn would want to know what in the world he had told Callia, or refrained from telling Callia, that would make her turn on him like this, and he would expect to hear something about how Harry intended to repair the breach. After all, promising to marry Callia was one of the prices that he had paid Sandborn with.

Harry settled his shoulders and went into battle.

* * *

"You could have told me that it would be today." Draco knew that he was pouting at Pansy, but really. He hadn't anticipated the news that would fall like a boulder into the calm, flowing stream of his attempts to control Sandborn and court Potter.

"I didn't know it would be." Pansy, lounging on the chair closest to the hearth in a robe that opened far too far down the front, smirked at him and picked up another slice of cream-covered apple from her plate. She ate it delicately enough, Draco reckoned, but he could have done with less splashing about of cream in general and licking of her fingers. "I gave her the information. I knew she would use it in this way. She thinks Potter lied to her, and she doesn't take to being manipulated with grace. She doesn't think of it as a game," Pansy added, and her tone said how grieved and shocked she was to find a pure-blood like that. "But I never knew that she would choose this morning. I thought she would wait longer, actually."

Draco sighed. "Do you know how Potter's going to react?"

"No," Pansy said happily. "I don't. And neither do you. I think you know him less than you think you do."

Draco let his eyes narrow, because Pansy ought to know that she was going a bit far in questioning his judgment. "Really."

"Yes."

Astoria moved into view. Pansy had kept her from appearing in front of the fire so far and hadn't revealed to Draco that she was there, the bitch. Draco would have shot Pansy an indignant look, but that was too much like telling her she had won, so he settled for letting his eyes linger on the cloud of fuzzy golden curls around Astoria's ears.

"Breathtaking, as always," he murmured, when he had waited long enough to make Astoria's face turn lightly pink.

"Draco." Astoria clasped her hands in front of her as thought she intended to go to a Muggle prayer convention and leaned forwards. "How attached are you to this plan of courting Potter?"

"As a plan? Very. It's caused the most interesting expressions to appear on Sandborn's face, and his, already, and it entertains me." Draco leaned back on his own pile of cushions in front of the fireplace, absently noting that he should get a chair, like Pansy. It would make him appear more impressive. "I can change what it means, of course. At the moment, I don't think Potter has any idea of the level of my sincerity."

"Don't be sincere," Astoria said. "Potter is…weak. He reacted to Rettern's offer last night visibly, and it was an offer to let him go away and abandon everything, including the contract, including his friends, including his power base."

Draco lifted his eyebrows. "I think you should tell me more about the context." He would have needed to know that in any case, of course, but right now he still thought that his estimate of Potter was more accurate than Astoria's, and more accurate than she could possibly know. She hadn't been there to see Potter's face change color.

Astoria did, dwelling with emphasis on every gesture that Potter had made. Draco listened and smiled now and then, sucking his teeth at other points, so that she would think that his most important objective was listening. In reality, though, his mind sped behind the mask, and he revisited several gestures Potter had made that he had misunderstood and adjusted his comprehension in light of this new information.

Yes, he could see it now. Potter had changed, as one could not help but do when one was under the necessity—as Potter would see it—of a deep, long-lasting, vivid deception. He was no longer the man Draco had known in Hogwarts or even right after the war, impulsive and wild and, most important of all, fearless.

He was afraid to confront the challenges that streamed around him. He didn't want Draco to antagonize Sandborn. He jumped when Draco stroked him with verbal caresses, and stared at him with eyes that bulged with near-panic. No wonder he wanted to think that Rettern could offer him the perfect solution to all his problems, including a way to slip around the chains of concern from his friends that were waiting for him if he walked openly.

Draco smiled a bit when Astoria was done, which made her slam the heels of her hands together. "Draco, did you listen to a word that I said?" she asked impatiently.

"Of course," Draco said, and smiled blandly at her. "But I still think I know him better than you do. Shall I tell you why?"

Astoria folded her arms and rolled her eyes. "By all means. You would gratify me if you would tell me why you still think that you can get something worthwhile out of him."

Draco laughed aloud then. "I remember the other times that you fumed at me like that," he explained, when he saw Pansy's curious, glittering eyes peering over Astoria's shoulder. "I always managed to soothe you in the end, didn't I?" He lowered his voice into a flowing murmur, and Astoria had to tuck her hair behind her ears before she could continue. Draco saw Pansy smile, and he smiled back. It was payback for Astoria lurking out of sight and not announcing her presence in Pansy's house at once.

"Do," Astoria said. "At the moment, I can't help thinking that you're being incredibly stupid. Excuse me for thinking that when your behavior reflects the incredibly stupid hypothesis better than any other," she added tartly, as if she thought that Draco already agreed with her and she could _be _that insulting.

Draco forgave her, because he was magnanimous like that. "Potter is afraid," he said. "And depressed. And confused, because he doesn't know how much of my flirting I mean."

"None of it," Astoria said, and then her eyelids fluttered with uncertainty as Draco let some moments pass in silence. "Draco. Tell me that you don't mean it."

"Jealous?" Draco cooed. "I told you once, I would be glad to take you for another tumble whenever you get tired of Blaise."

Pansy flung her head back, her laughter rich as plum brandy. Astoria's shoulders tensed. "Draco," she said, doing what she should have done from the beginning and simply ignoring his insinuations. "You are far more stupid than I thought you were if you let Potter drag you down into the depths of his muddled mind."

"His confusion and his depression and his fear are all temporary things," Draco said. "He is less courageous than he was, yes, and a less good actor than I thought he was, or he would never have let those signals show." Astoria folded her arms, unused to the concession to her intelligence. Draco flicked his fingers at her. "But he will bounce back. And he'll have more strength soon, when I get to him and reassure him that he has a strong ally in me, whether or not we ever go to bed together."

"You're considering it seriously, then." Pansy nodded and picked up another apple slice. "I thought you would. Potter has the kind of fire that you would like, but hidden, and you want to be the one to bring it out."

"Why did we never work out?" Draco asked her. "You know me better than anyone else." He gave Astoria a sharp look and a sniff. "Certainly better than some other people do."

"We never worked out because I love Theodore and you love yourself." Pansy finished her apple slices and stood, tugging her robe closed. "If I were you, I would contact Potter soon, Draco. He won't like being left alone the way he has been, and he can't turn to any of his friends without revealing more than he wants to." She departed the kitchen, leaving the bowl behind her. A house-elf claimed it a moment later.

"I may not be able to answer your last question, but at the moment, I remember all the reasons that _I _didn't stay with you perfectly," Astoria said, and her look could have flayed him if Draco had allowed himself to be troubled by things like that.

"Don't blame yourself, darling," Draco said, and shut the Floo connection before she could get in the last word. It was a failing of Astoria's that she wanted to have it so often.

Draco turned to comb his hair and decide which set of formal robes he would wear today. He might not be able to venture into the Ministry again without Sandborn finding him and throwing him out, but it would take him the time until Potter got off work to decide on the perfect appearance, anyway.

Looking good was _work_. Which explained why Potter's fiancée hadn't managed it, and Pansy had decided to learn the secret of it without spending a lot of time on it, something that Draco thought harder than the work was in the first place. People like them were morally opposed to hard labor.

_Well, good. That'll make it all the easier to counter Callia's little schemes._

* * *

Sandborn had, so far, stood with his back turned to Harry, although he had dipped his head in response to Harry's greeting. _He knows I'm here, at least. _

Harry had waited longer than this before and in more difficult circumstances. He folded his hands behind his back and stared at the far wall, meanwhile going over old case notes in his head. He still wasn't completely satisfied with the arrest on the Anderson case. That was years ago, but sometimes Aurors discovered evidence that had eluded them at the time, and a guilty person who had escaped could be retried. Or an innocent person could be freed. Harry had to admit that those were his favorites. Freeing innocents had been the reason that he'd entered into the contract in the first place.

"You are going to confront Callia?"

Sandborn's voice was odd. Harry didn't pause in any way that would let the bastard realized he had noticed, but simply said, "I will have to. If she doesn't want to marry me because of the taint in my blood, then of course our betrothal will break off. But I don't want to do that. There has to be a mistake here somewhere."

"Have you ever heard of such a thing?" Sandborn whirled around to face him, staring hard. "Or had yourself tested?"

Harry shook his head. "I never heard of it, and no one mentioned it to me," he said. "It was the kind of material that would have made good gossip in the days when Rita Skeeter made it her mission to find out or make up unsavory facts about me. If it's true, then I'm surprised it hasn't emerged before now."

Sandborn nodded, but he looked distracted. He pressed one fist to his stomach and one to his mouth. Harry blinked and focused harder on him. "Are you sick, sir?" he asked, when some minutes had passed and Sandborn hadn't moved.

"You'd like that," Sandborn said, snapping around and fixing hard eyes on him. "If I was sick and you could take over the office."

Harry was glad that his hands were behind his back at the moment, or Sandborn might have seen the way Harry's fingers stretched instinctively for his wand. He couldn't reach it from this angle, though, so he calmed himself and watched Sandborn with as much dispassion as he could muster. "I don't know what you're talking about, sir. You know as well as I that there's too much between us for me to run for Minister. You could ruin me in a moment."

Sandborn blinked several times, his eyes moving oddly, as though he was fighting against weights pressed on the lids. Then he shook his head. "You don't—I had forgotten that," he said.

Forgotten the _contract? _Harry was more sure than ever now that something had gone wrong. Perhaps someone had tried to read Sandborn's mind, or someone had poisoned him. He had acted this way only once before that Harry could remember, when someone had tried to give him the Draught of Living Death and he had been snappish and paranoid instead of sinking into sleep. He had told Harry then that he often had strange reactions to potions, as he was allergic to a variety of common ingredients.

And then Harry's mind locked on the purple potion that Malfoy had set up in Sandborn's office, with a mechanism that ensured half of it boiled away into a gas before it was found. How long had Sandborn breathed it in?

"Sir." He tried to keep his voice gentle as he stepped towards the door of the office. His thoughts were speeding fast enough that he knew he no longer had his first soul behind his eyes. He had agreed to fight free of Sandborn, yes. He had never told Malfoy that he could _kill _Sandborn—anymore than he had told the git that his friends could harass Callia. _If he preserves my freedom by hurting others, then I won't be able to join him after all. _"Let me summon some of the Potions masters. They can check the office for traces of poison."

"You told me that you have no friends among the Potions masters, Potter." Sandborn smiled, and Harry saw blood staining his teeth. He tensed. Whether the Minister had bitten his tongue or done something else that made the blood come up from his lungs, Harry didn't know, but he knew that he had no intention of letting it go untreated. "Was that a lie, like so much else, like the idea that you were content to exist under the contract and do nothing to free yourself?"

Harry's heart bounded, but he forced himself to stand still. He thought again of the way that Sandborn had behaved under the influence of the Draught of Living Death, that he had seen shadows that weren't there. Harry doubted that he had guessed the true nature of the Slytherins' plan and that they knew about the contract. Rather, his mind had fastened on the worst suspicion it could think of and he was turning against Harry because of that.

"No, sir," he said. "But I'll overcome my distaste for them so that you can have the help you need."

"I don't need help." Sandborn staggered, one hand gripping his desk as if he would fall over without it. "I'm fine."

"I don't think you are, sir."

Sandborn whirled around, and Harry's Auror instincts betrayed him. If Sandborn had had a wand in hand, he would have lifted his own in time to get a shield between them. But Sandborn was unarmed, and Harry hesitated a fatal instant in responding.

By the time he did, he was on the floor, and Sandborn was kneeling on his chest, his hands locked around Harry's throat. Harry sucked in a sharp breath and slammed his knees into Sandborn's back. Sandborn rocked forwards, but the tightness of his clutch never varied.

Harry closed his eyes. He could deal with something like this, though he had always preferred not to do it. It wouldn't do to let stories of his prowess get out, both because people would fear him and because Sandborn might start thinking that he should use his magic in different ways under the contract.

But he reached down now, to his magical core, and envisioned it in front of him, the glowing golden hourglass that he had pictured since he started learning from Hermione, and imagined that it pulsed, once.

The pulse of warmth spread through his skin, energy that flung him to his feet and tossed Sandborn from him. Harry landed in a crouch, and ground his teeth so that he wouldn't simply fly up and out of the office. He knew that he could leap from a window at the moment and soar the way he had seen Snape and Voldemort doing. But he had to stay here and deal with Sandborn. No matter what Malfoy thought, getting him out of the contract wasn't as easy as blindly resisting anything the Minister demanded of him.

"Sir," he said, his voice as low and gentle as possible. "You're not making sense. I think you might be under the influence of a curse or a spell. Let me call a Healer if you don't want to see the Potions masters, at least."

Sandborn sat with his arms around himself, as though trying to hold in warmth, and laughed. Harry shuddered and watched the blood curl up and creep around the edges of his teeth. "You would like that, too," Sandborn whispered. "Like as not, you would try to have me declared mad and stuck on the Janus Thickey ward. It's not as though I haven't seen the resentment in your eyes, Potter. The way you look at me, as if you can't believe that you sold yourself to me."

_You have to act now better than you ever have, _Harry told himself, as he watched Sandborn's hand creeping towards his wand again. _Otherwise, you might easily betray everything that the Slytherins have achieved for you so far._

"Sir," he said. "What would happen if I tried to get free of you, or break the contract?"

"I would destroy you." Sandborn said it so casually, it pushed the breath out of Harry's lungs. He had to remind himself that Sandborn was on the potion and wouldn't have acted like this normally.

"Besides that," Harry said. "Everyone would laugh at me. The only way I have any power now is through you. There's no way that they would let me just challenge you." He thought about the way that people looked at him in Ministry galas and when he spoke at public functions such as the opening of libraries, and nodded. It was true. He was Sandborn's pawn now, and the ones who didn't admire him for being "adult" and compromising with the Ministry despised him for it. "I'm still yours, sir. I'm still your obedient servant. And that's going to be true no matter what."

Sandborn held his eyes for long, motionless moments. Harry had to hope that this particular potion and his allergic reaction to it didn't make him more perceptive than normal, only more paranoid. He didn't move, and in a few minutes Sandborn snarled reluctantly and turned his head away.

"You're right," he muttered, as though saying the words pained him. "Go and tell me undersecretary that I want my appointments for the rest of the day canceled."

Harry nodded and stood up, though his back prickled when he turned it on Sandborn. His mind raced like his feet as he hurried out of the office.

Sure, Malfoy had said that they needed to free Harry from the contract. But he'd never said anything about this. Harry didn't think it had been deliberate, given Sandborn's allergies and how much of common knowledge they _weren't, _but the fact remained that this could have damaged everything by making Sandborn appear demented and out of control in front of other people. Harry didn't want the Ministry to collapse, or even for Sandborn to fall from power, because he was an effective politician. Whoever took his place would probably be worse.

_I'm going to have to support him for now, and tell Malfoy that we need a different plan._


	15. The Ticking Seconds

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Fifteen—The Ticking Seconds_

"Is he going to be all right?"

Harry knew his question annoyed the Potions master, who watched him for only a second before she snorted and looked back down at Sandborn. The Minister was asleep on the bed in front of her, the one where Aurors who needed healing potions usually rested. Sara Click stepped back and cocked her head as though estimating his color and the rate of his breathing. Harry tried to do the same thing, but he didn't know enough about potions allergies. He had only ever seen the side-effects he was already familiar with, like the press of Sandborn's fingers around his neck.

"He will be," Click said. "It'll take a while, but once he awakens, then we can decide how much longer the potion will affect his mind." She turned, and her long braid of silver-blonde hair twitched behind her like a tail while she stared at Harry. "And you _still _don't know how he ended up like this?"

"I saw a potion that he discovered in the office the other day," Harry said. "There was a trap set on it to make the potion boil away into gas and affect him." He didn't think this counted as betraying Malfoy, since Sandborn would have told her the same thing if he was awake. "But I don't know what it did, and until today he seemed fine."

"Describe it."

Harry did, but he could tell from the way Click's spine stiffened that he was making a hash of it. Well, his descriptive skills and his eyes were adapted to crime scene details, and usually that meant spilled potions or cracked glass, not potions that were still active and dangerous. The only things he could really remember were that it was viscous and purple.

"All right," she said, cutting him off, and confirming Harry's suspicion that his description didn't help. "Fine. What I need you to do now is a bit complicated."

"All right," Harry said obediently, and then stood still while she ran one more critical eye over him before snorting and turning to a stack of parchment that stood nearby. She didn't bother going to get a quill; she flicked her fingers and it appeared in her hand, as fast as some of the Aurors could shake out their wands. Harry blinked, impressed in spite of himself.

"You need to take this to one of my colleagues down the corridor," Click said, writing fast. "Her name's Flora, and it's on the door. Then you'll need to take this second list I'll give you to the nearest apothecaries and start asking around for who sold the ingredients recently. I suspect what the potion is, but I can't be sure, and I won't know until I have the report that you can bring me as well as Flora's analysis."

"That doesn't sound complicated," Harry ventured.

Click gave him a flat glance. "It is when you know as little as you apparently do about potions."

"Tell me, were you trained by Snape?" Harry asked, because apparently he couldn't help himself. "You have a lot in common with him."

"I know that you mean that as an insult, but I am going to take it as a compliment, therefore defusing whatever insult you may have intended to give me with it." Click handed him a single brilliant smile that she switched off like a Muggle light as she held out two sheets of parchment. "The top one's for Flora, the second one for the investigation that I want you to start into apothecaries. Stick to London and Hogsmeade. Most small village apothecaries aren't going to have them."

"You were," Harry concluded, taking the sheets.

"Get out, now," Click said, and turned over to pace back to Sandborn, resting two fingers on his throat. After a moment, she frowned and reached towards the notes that she'd already made, studying something on Sandborn's face that could be the way his eyes flickered or the visible beats of his pulse or how many eyelashes he had, for all Harry knew.

Harry rolled his eyes and stepped out of the room, looking at both parchments and finding that the ingredients were unfamiliar to him for the most part—

And then he stopped dead.

When he was in his right mind—his first soul, the one he _should _have been in as long as he was consulting with Ministry Potions masters, all of whom would have far more reason to be loyal to Sandborn than to him—he didn't joke like that. He didn't make stupid remarks. He didn't act as though he was anything other than Sandborn's blindly obedient and loyal slave.

What was _wrong _with him?

Harry licked his lips. He didn't know.

Of course he would go to Malfoy and consult with him about these ingredients, although he didn't think he could escape giving Flora the first parchment; Click could check up on that too easily. And he had to explain to Malfoy what had happened and that his ploy with the potion, whatever it was, had failed. Also, that he wouldn't be a party to murder, and that if Malfoy was trying to change Sandborn's mind, that was different from killing him.

Those were cold, practical, rational decisions. Harry nodded and lengthened his stride down the corridor, looking for Flora's office.

But the joking, the changes that seemed to be creeping up on him, the change that _had _been there, the last time he spoke with Malfoy, flirted with him, let himself be affected by Malfoy's flirting, and in front of Sandborn, no less…

Harry knew that he would have to do something about that as well, or the anxiety would overwhelm him and he would lose control of a situation that he absolutely had to have control of at the worst possible time.

But he didn't know what in the world he would do yet. And he could almost wish that he didn't have to see Malfoy, despite the part of him that sang for joy at an excuse, because he knew, he _knew, _that it would muck everything up.

* * *

Draco leaned back in his chair and studied his reflection. The mirror bounced silently up and down in the gilded wooden frame. Draco had been forced to remove the enchantment that let it speak, because it would inevitably start praising him, and he needed to consider his face without any extra encouragement.

He knew that he would get extra encouragement from his own appreciation of his looks, of course, but that would make up for the lack of compliments that Potter would give him.

He had done his hair in a deceptively casual style that he couldn't mess up by running a hand through it, or at least through the outer strands of it. It shone, the result of carefully placed glamour charms, and it would shine even in a dim room of the kind that Potter would probably insist on meeting in. He wore formal grey robes, but without the lace and careful tailoring that would reveal them as formal. He had bright black boots, and around his neck was a golden medallion that Pansy had made for him in jest some years back. Being Pansy, she had done it well, because what was the point of a joke if it looked cheap? The chain it hung on was a replica of the silver ones that held the Orders of Merlin people like Potter received.

Draco wondered if Potter would notice that, or if he had chosen the decoration for no good reason. Then he smiled and shook his head, watching as his reflection did the same thing. No, he might have overestimated how good an actor Potter was, but he _was _more observant than the boy whom Draco used to know. He would notice, and he would probably bite his lip and hold back some comment, but his eyes would snap and flash.

It surprised Draco, to realize how much he was looking forward to that.

He had started to turn away from the mirror when an owl rapped on the window. Draco raised an eyebrow as he crossed to it. He had already told his friends that he expected to be out or busy most of the day.

Which meant this probably didn't come from a friend.

Draco kept his wand in hand as he watched the black owl flutter into the room, but it made no move to attack him. It settled on his arm as though it was sure of a welcome, in fact, and held out the letter insistently. Draco still checked it for hexes and curses before he took it, but that was just common sense.

The angular hand on the envelope told him who it was from. Draco took his time to hold the letter, trying to see if he could feel the familiar subtle energy that surrounded Potter from it, before he shook his head and surrendered to the owl's anxiety that he open it, and his own.

The letters seemed to slash across the page.

_Malfoy, your potion caused an allergic reaction in Sandborn. If you'd asked me before you did that, I could have told you that he's allergic to a lot of common potions ingredients. He went crazy and paranoid and tried to choke me. I managed to calm him down and make him go to a Potions master, but she suspects something and she gave me a list of ingredients that she wants me to search out in apothecaries. I need to meet you in a secure place and talk to you about this._

Not a wasted word, Draco thought. And he hadn't signed it, either. In some things, at least, Potter had learned some elementary caution.

"Very well, then," Draco murmured, nodding as he accepted his own mistake. He knew that allergies to common ingredients existed, although from what he knew, they were much rarer than Muggle food allergies. _Just another way that we're better than they are. _He should have planned for that, or at least asked Potter about it before he decided to use that particular potion on Sandborn. It was true that it contained a lot of the ingredients that sparked the allergies, when they did exist.

And he would have to make sure that Potter wasn't concealing worse wounds than the bland words in the letter hinted at. Tried to choke him? And Potter had still taken him to the Potions masters rather than delegating some other Auror to do it, as he could have? Of course, perhaps he didn't care that much about his life being in danger.

Draco accepted the anger that shone in him with the thought, examined it curiously, and then put it away for later.

"All right," he said, to the owl, and bent down to write his own response. He would have to choose a place that Potter could reach soon, but also one where they were unlikely to be spied upon. And with Potter's notoriety and the attention that Draco attracted everywhere he went because of his grace and beauty, they weren't spoiled for choices.

He made one, of course, and without much fuss or thought. He was quick like that, his mind spitting and springing like lightning.

As he watched the black owl fly away with his letter, he hoped that Potter would learn to appreciate it.

* * *

Harry stepped into the small pub and turned around, staring over his shoulder. The door he'd spotted from the street had already vanished. Given the small tug he had felt when he stepped through it, it was most likely a disguised Portkey, anyway.

But he'd never had such a smooth journey by Portkey, or one that didn't leave him violently disoriented because of the colors swirling around his head. Harry reckoned that was what money could buy you.

The restaurant in front of him was calm and quiet and bright, with white candles blazing in every direction and mirrors on the walls. It didn't take Harry long to notice that the mirrors reflected only the light, not the people who walked through them. The walls were soft, cool grey, covered with what looked like honest-to-God fur, and the fireplaces blazed everywhere. It should have been hot, but either the marble or the magic in the room kept it cool. Harry made his way towards the table where Malfoy already sat, giving his cloak to a silent attendant on the way.

Malfoy turned around and smiled at him slowly. Harry found himself coming to a stop as though someone had stabbed a lance straight through his guts, biting his tongue as he stared at Malfoy.

God, he was beautiful.

Harry had known that before, seeing him challenge and flirt all at once in the conversation with Sandborn, but this was more than that. He looked like a creature of shadow and shine now, grey in his robes, bright everywhere else, a child of flaring light. Harry had dreamed of figures like that. Rescuing angels. Bright women he danced with in his dreams, somewhere and someplace that he could still marry someone he loved like a normal person.

Dumbledore. Dumbledore and King's Cross Station in his vision shone like that.

That thought helped calm Harry down. He took a deep breath and crossed the remaining floor between them. Malfoy was smiling at him, deep and quiet, like the restaurant's décor, as if he knew the effect he had and wanted to savor it.

"I received your letter," he said, when Harry sat and before the server could reach them, "and I'm afraid that you still don't understand."

"I know that I won't be a party to murder." Harry had learned how to keep his tone and face neutral when he was working with Sandborn, and to lower his voice on the important words without seeming to do so. He smiled at the server and took the wine list as if he had a notion of ordering anything. His appetite had vanished the moment he received Malfoy's note and directions to this place, this—Locus Lucis he thought was the name. "I won't let you brew a potion that kills him."

Malfoy had a glass of some pale wine. He sipped it solemnly and studied Harry. Harry stared back, and wished for a second that the mirrors _did _reflect the people who passed through here. He could have used the sight of his own determined face to strengthen his resolve.

"The potion wasn't meant to kill him," Malfoy said at last.

Harry could have sagged with relief, but he managed to keep himself from doing that. At least he hadn't allied himself with someone who wanted to kill Sandborn on purpose. "Good," he said, voice crackling. "Then what was it meant to do?"

"Soften his mind," Malfoy said, with a little nod, as though he was impressed that Harry knew the potion had to have some effect. "Make his perceptions malleable, and make him respond to suggestions I gave him as though he was hearing the promptings of his own brain. Eventually, it would have formed a telepathic connection between us."

Harry tapped something he didn't even see on the wine list and handed it back so that the hovering, patient, but still annoying server would go away. "Wow," he said. "You really _are _insane."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed in what looked like amusement. "And why is that, Harry?"

"You don't get to do that," Harry snapped, startled by the flare of anger through him. At least it burned away the inappropriate thoughts about Malfoy that he was having, and that was all to the good. "You don't get to call me by my first name when you didn't tell me about this, when Sandborn could have died."

Malfoy put down his wineglass and leaned forwards to smooth his hand down the back of Harry's wrist. Harry started like a nervous horse. He hadn't realized he would do that until Malfoy touched him, but then again, he hadn't expected Malfoy to touch him, either.

"You don't understand, Harry," Malfoy said softly. "I didn't intend to kill Sandborn. I didn't know about his potions allergies, I swear to you that I didn't. You know they're rare, and that he has reason for keeping that piece of information quiet."

Harry tried to remove his hand. Malfoy pinned it effortlessly to the glass top of the table, smiling slightly. Harry brought up his other hand under the table and pinched hard at a specific place on the bottom of Malfoy's arm. Malfoy let him go with a slight gasp and a wince. Harry shoved his chair back so that he could get a grip on the wand.

"You are the _hardest _man to help that I've ever met," Malfoy said, and there was mingled pity and exasperation in his tone. "What did you think the potion would do? Did you _really _believe that I only intended to insinuate to Sandborn that I believed him your lover and wanted to incapacitate him that way?"

"I didn't," Harry said, and closed his eyes. Because what had he thought would happen? Had he believed that nothing could change, that nothing would change, that he could do and say whatever he wanted and Sandborn would topple away from him but remain standing like a wooden table with one support removed but three remaining?

No, he hadn't thought that. But he hadn't bargained on the _harm _that would come to other people. He was willing to withdraw his power from Sandborn's hold and leave him to flounder in whatever political chaos resulted. But he hadn't envisioned Sandborn lying still and pale on the Potions master's table like that. He hadn't envisioned the tears on Callia's cheeks, the bleakness in her eyes.

"Listen to me."

Harry forced his eyes open and did. Malfoy leaned across the table towards him, and this time, when he pinned one of Harry's hands to the table and stroked the delicate bones there, Harry didn't try to move it. He just watched, and waited.

"This is the price for Slytherin aid," Malfoy said. His voice was stripped of all pretense, and Harry didn't think he would hear any amusement or any flirtation in it any time soon. "No one of us cares about Sandborn, Potter, or your fiancée. You're the only one who does. If you wanted them unhurt, you should have stayed with the contract."

"Will you say the same thing about my friends?" Harry murmured, unable to stop himself.

Malfoy cocked his head to the side, and the flirtation was back, sliding like shadow along his smile. "Oh, no. You're free to hurt them all you want. And you will, when they learn that you've lied to them for years."

Harry ground his teeth. This was stupid. This wasn't what he'd come here to talk about, and though he knew it was probably all connected—he wasn't _that _stupid—he dragged the conversation back to the track it should have pursued in the first place. "All right. Can you at least promise me that the next potion, or trick, you use won't kill Sandborn?"

"After this?" Malfoy shrugged, his eyes calm and steady. "I don't know. He's aware of us now, because of the way that you reacted and because of carelessness on my part, so we may need to remove him completely."

Harry shook his head. "You're talking about another human being."

"So what?" Malfoy said. His eyes were smooth and cold and hard as the marble walls probably were, behind the mirrors and the grey furs. "I don't want to kill him, no. I will, if I have no other choice. But what I'm saying is that no, I can't guarantee anything. If Sandborn attacked me in the middle of my warded Manor, for example, the wards would kill hm. And if he had to die to free you so that I could repay my debt, then that's what would happen."

Harry shook his head, at a loss for words. He was used to exactly one person taking risks for him and talking about laying his life down for Harry, and Malfoy was manifestly not Ron.

"Why would you do this?" he finally settled for whispering. "Why do you think your debt to me requires this?"

* * *

This was the moment when Draco could have leered at him and pretended that he felt more for Potter than he did. Or he could have turned the question away with a light jest. Potter, he thought, would be just as glad to have that happen. Then he could go back to pretending that Draco didn't feel any recognizable emotions and that he was the noble, righteous one because the death of Sandborn—for some reason—would keep him up at night.

But Draco didn't think dishonesty would serve him right now. It was likely to make Potter more nervous, if anything. And he didn't feel like confirming Potter's illusions.

"Because I've decided that it does," he said, and gave Potter a smile with sweet, sharp edges. "How does it feel, to have someone else make decisions for you that affect your life and not give you a part in them?"

Potter's breath came harshly out of his teeth. "If you hate that and think I did it," he began, then fell silent.

Draco laughed and rubbed his thumb along the underside of Potter's wrist. "Yes, the empathy argument works on Gryffindors," he said. "You would think that inflicting something you hate on someone else is horrible. But we're Slytherins. This is revenge."

"I don't think of you primarily by your House affiliation."

Draco raised an eyebrow. _Well. Isn't that interesting. _"How do you think of me, then?" he murmured, and let his voice lower and his touch become lighter and more intimate on Potter's wrist, both at once.

It took Potter a long time to answer. The words came slowly out of his mouth, his brow furrowed, and Draco could see why Sandborn didn't trust him to give his own speeches.

"I think that you're infuriating," he said. "And humorous, which I need right now. And too attractive for your own good. And set on repaying this debt because of the way it troubles me as much as anything else." He jerked his head up and eyed Draco grimly, as if he'd said something that he should despise. "And someone I need to work with and who I really, really hope doesn't kill anyone. Whether I care about them or not."

"Why not?" Draco whispered. He didn't reach for his wine, because that would have shown Potter how dry his throat was. _Trust Gryffindors to go for the jugular._

"Because you're not a killer," Potter said. "And you don't need to be, to get what you want." He touched Draco's hand in return, one hard squeeze, and let go, leaning back. "So, what are we going to tell Click—that's the name of this Potions master, by the way—about the ingredients for the potion?"

For the first time, Draco was the one who had to shake his head and fight his way back to the current conversation. Even then, he felt half-drunk in a way no wine could make him, basking in the attention and the intelligent questions that flowed from Potter.

This was what Potter could offer, perhaps. Intensity, focus. Draco wouldn't want it every day, but…

But he might want it, yes.


	16. A Morning and an Evening

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Sixteen—A Morning and an Evening_

"You're sure this will work?" Harry looked doubtfully at the parchment that Malfoy had given him. It had all the ingredients listed—not the ingredients for the potion that had incapacitated Sandborn, Malfoy assured him, but another one that looked much the same but was harmless. Harry had to take his word for it, since he didn't even know much about the potion that had actually been used.

Then again, he was taking Malfoy's word for rather a lot already, and would have to continue to do so as long as he wanted Malfoy to help him.

"Positive." Malfoy lounged back against his chair, still sipping his wine, and smiled when Harry glared at him. "Look at it this way, Potter. Competent Potions master or not, do you think Click knows the handwriting of all the possible Potions masters and apprentices and assistants at all the apothecaries you could have visited?"

Harry shook his head reluctantly. He wasn't comfortable thinking that an enemy had less than total competence; it kept you from being nastily surprised when they turned around and used a curse you hadn't known they could use.

But at the same time, he knew something about Ministry Potions masters and the way they worked. It was highly doubtful that Click would get more than a few hours a week to pursue her own interests, which would include shopping for ingredients. Most of her supplies would come from the extensive stores of the Ministry itself. She couldn't afford the time to check up on the handwriting and that Harry had actually visited the shops she told him to visit. If she could have, she would have done it herself.

"All right," he said, and tucked the parchment away. He looked at Malfoy and then away. He didn't want to chance a look that was too long and find himself staring in helpless fascination, which it really felt like he might do if he wasn't careful. "What are you going to do next?"

"There's a lead I have concerning the people who would have testified against us at our trials that never happened." Malfoy sipped the last of his wine and put down his glass with a regretful caress of his fingers. Harry tried to conceal how much he would have liked to be touched the same way. "I shouldn't wait too long for it."

Harry cocked his head "But most of those people have some power and influence, and there's a lot. Do you really think that you can bribe all of them?"

Malfoy smiled at him. "Did I say that I was going to bribe all of them?"

"Some of them, then." Harry shifted restlessly. He wanted to leave Locus Lucis and he didn't want to. "I don't like to think of you spending the money I got back for you on something like that, even if you do only bribe fifty percent of them, or a quarter, or whatever."

Malfoy's smile was gone so fast that it left an afterimage, and he leaned forwards. At the last moment, he seemed to have decided against pinning Harry's hand to the table again, but the way his own hand shook with rage, Harry was sure that he'd considered it.

"Listen to me," he said. "That money is mine now. I do not consider myself in bondage to the outworn traditions that would say I must save it all for my heir, and I do not need to spend much of it on my day-to-day needs. Who do I have an obligation to, that I must spend it as _you_ would dictate?"

"I thought you felt an obligation to me," Harry said, and tried to keep himself from showing what that deepened voice did to him. God, was he doomed to be affected by Malfoy's looks and tone no matter what they were at the moment? "At least, that was what you told me when we started this thing."

Malfoy shook his head. "There is a difference between a debt owed and the person it's owed to dictating that you should fulfill the debt a certain way."

Harry had to roll his eyes. "I thought that was the way it worked, at least with life-debts." He had learned more about them than he wanted to when Sandborn had him give a speech on them and how nearly everyone alive in Britain at the time owed a life-debt to someone or other.

"It may," Malfoy said, "when the person who owes the debt isn't a Slytherin. But I am, and this is the way that _I _choose to answer."

Harry sighed. "Fine. How are you going to do it, then?"

"I don't think you need to know." Malfoy leaned back and surveyed Harry from that distance as though it made a huge difference to his angle of vision, then stood with a small sniff. "You would only interfere and try to determine that it was too much for us."

"Given our track record when I don't know your plans, I don't think that's a good idea." Harry deliberately remained sitting as Malfoy stood, staring him in the eye. Such elementary intimidation tactics had long since ceased to work on him. Being Sandborn's slave did have its advantages.

"That one failed only because of information that I should have asked for and didn't," Malfoy replied promptly. "This time, I promise, there is no information you could offer me that would make a difference in the outcome. This is my world, Potter. The people that I was raised among and trained to handle. You would only slow me down."

"Even with all I've learned in the last few years?" Harry muttered. He couldn't help it; he felt a bit defiant.

Malfoy gave him another of those smiles that made Harry feel as if he stood in the middle of spring. "Yes," he said. "Even with that. Your acting abilities have been damaged by the revelations that surround you now, by the prospect of freedom. I should have suspected that and created countermeasures for it, but I did not. Another thing I should have foreseen and will now have to live with."

"So sorry that I'm not the perfect automaton that you thought you would be getting when you proposed this plan," Harry muttered. He was unsettled and seeking to lash out, he knew. Taunting Malfoy wouldn't accomplish anything.

Except that it made Malfoy lean forwards, one hand resting hard on his, and stare into his eyes for endless moments, until Harry knew his blush was devouring his face.

"You can bluff Sandborn still," Malfoy said softly, "or you would have more to report to me than his going mad from a wrongly judged potion. That is all I need you to do for the present." His fingers moved gently, as if exploring the soft skin between Harry's own fingers. "In the future…I think your fire and your lack of perfect acting skills will be more valuable."

"For giving testimony that could take Sandborn down?" That was the only use Harry could imagine for them at he moment, and it was so _hard _to take his eyes from Malfoy's.

"Because you are waking up," Malfoy said. "Because you will become the man you should have been if not for this contract, and that means my debt to you will be fulfilled."

Harry nodded. Of course it returned to the debt, he told himself, swallowing hard. It all did. Malfoy wouldn't have begun this in the first place simply to help him.

Malfoy bent closer, and his lips were bloody distracting. Harry would have turned his head to the side, but once again he couldn't look away from those eyes.

"And because I don't intend our connection to end with the debt," Malfoy whispered, "and your fire and honesty will be valuable _then_, as well."

Harry froze, every motion of those long pale fingers on his seared across his brain like a flash of lightning.

Then Malfoy pulled back, and gave him a smile that could mean anything, and turned away and walked out of the restaurant with a jaunty stride. Harry stayed long enough to run a hand over his jaw and think a bit more about what Malfoy had said before he gave up on reasoning through the turns of that labyrinth.

_He's on my side, at least enough to forgive me for failing to inform him of something that could have been important. That's more than a lot of other Slytherins would have been willing to do._

Harry glanced at the list that Malfoy had given him once more, and stood up with a nod. He would have to hope that it could fool a Potions master as experienced as Click had seemed to be. And that meant trusting Malfoy a little more than he was inclined to, at least as far as their pretense of flirtation went.

_For the last seven years, you haven't had to depend on anyone but yourself. Everyone else was only playing the role that came to them naturally, including Sandborn. I think it's the trust itself that hurts._

Harry grimaced. _Probably true. _

As he ducked out of the restaurant, staggered a little under the surge of the concealed Portkey transporting him, and immediately cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself so that no one inclined to gossip would see him coming out of an entrance to what could be seen as a notorious meeting place for Slytherins and their associates, given all Harry knew about it, he suffered a brief longing, again, to run away. Running away would be easier than facing the pain he would cause his friends when they found out the truth.

But it wasn't an option, so he sighed wistfully and applied himself to what was in front of him.

* * *

"I don't think I _know _another potion that will do what you want that one to do without the same ingredients."

Draco stared at Theo for a long moment after that disappointing pronouncement. Then he leaned forwards and flicked a finger sharply against Theo's right ear.

"Ow!" Theo jerked back, clapping one hand to the ear as though he assumed Draco was going to try hitting it with a Stinging Curse next. "What is _wrong _with you? I'm only telling you the truth, that's all!"

"I came to you because you were a Potions master," Draco said, and gave him a patient smile. "The only one I know who doesn't work for the Ministry and Sandborn—"

"I work for the Ministry," Theo protested, but lowered his head protectively and dared around to the side of the table when Draco gave him a frozen stare.

"You _interrupted _me," Draco said haughtily. "I was making a speech with lots of rhetorical flourishes and interesting bits that were connected to my subject, and you interrupted me. You made me lose my train of thought."

"It must have been a bloody short train, then," Pansy said, sweeping into the lab as though she owned it—and she did own half the house where she and Theo lived, Draco had to admit. That wasn't the point, though. Pansy had interrupted, too, and at this point, he would never get to say what was most important. Pansy gave Theo a kiss and put her hands on his shoulders, smirking at Draco as if to remind him that she had a lover when he didn't. "Merlin be thanked that you were never in charge of driving the Hogwarts Express."

"That job would have been too Muggle for me," Draco said. "And Muggles are ordinary and boring even if they aren't inferior. Can you honestly say that _I'm _either one of those things?" He turned his head to the side so that they could see him in profile and get the best view of him.

They considered him for a moment, and then Pansy shook her head. "But I bet that sometimes your parents would have preferred a Squib son to what they had in you," she said. Theo nodded emphatically, then cringed and lifted his hand to his ear when Draco turned to eye it thoughtfully.

"Of course they would have," Draco said. "My father liked life to be boring for others, because that made them easier for him to control. They would follow the excitement that he promised. But I don't have the same ambitions that he planned for me to have, and you know it." He caught Pansy's eye.

She nodded reluctantly. Draco nodded back. One of their first and fiercest quarrels after the war had been about what they were going to do with the money and the property that their parents had left them (and that Potter had ensured they got back after the trials, although they hadn't known that at the time). Pansy had thought that Draco should carry on the traditions as his father would have, rising to the top in the Ministry political games and marrying someone who was so traditionally pure-blood she would choke if she saw a Muggle. Draco had refused. He was going to be his own person, living a life free of shadows. Draco sometimes thought it was the main reason they had never married.

Other times, of course, he knew the truth: he would have outshone Pansy in any marriage, and she couldn't stand that.

"You're a Potions master, as I was about to say before I was so rudely interrupted," Draco said haughtily to Theo. "I'm confident that you can come up with another potion to let us implant suggestions in Sandborn's head that won't use any of the ingredients that he's allergic to."

"You don't even know which ingredients those were," Theo snapped at him, crossing his arms and scowling in a way that made him look unattractive. "I know that you're used to miracles, because you knew Snape, but I don't have his skill."

Pansy drew in a sharp breath.

"_What _did you say?" she asked, and she was looking at Theo as though he had admitted to spilling snake venom on one of her new robes. (He had actually done that once, he'd confessed to Draco, and been so nervous about it that one arch look from Pansy had been enough to make him admit it. He still turned red when Draco asked about the punishment).

Theo gave a small, unhappy laugh. "You heard me, Pans. I wanted to become a Potions master because of Snape, but I can't brew as well as he could. That's just the way it is. He was the kind of bloody genius who comes along once in a generation, if then, and I don't have that level of learning."

"No husband of _mine_," Pansy said, "says that."

Draco gave a small smile that he knew neither of them would notice and withdrew quietly. He would leave it up to them to have this out, and when they started paying attention to him again, he knew that Pansy would have convinced Theo to make a try at the potion, this time with different ingredients. Since that had been all Draco wanted in the first place, he had no qualms about who achieved it.

A pop behind him made him turn around, wondering if Pansy had ordered the house-elves to serve tea and then forgotten about it. But it was one of his own elves standing behind him, bowing fast enough to make him dizzy. Draco snapped his fingers so it would straighten up again—his elves were under standing orders not to make such gestures, because they _always _made Draco dizzy—and murmured, "What is it?"

"Master Harry Potter is being at Master Malfoy's wards," the elf said, flattening its ears to its head as though it assumed it would be punished for mentioning a visitor whose existence might be repulsive to Draco.

Draco glanced back. Pansy and Theo were good for another fifteen minutes, he judged, and slipped out of the room so that he could use the fireplace in the next one.

He felt another smile tug at his mouth. _Couldn't stay away from me even one day, could you, Potter?_

* * *

"Is this about the list of ingredients, Potter? You couldn't manage to do even that much right, could you?"

Harry said nothing as Malfoy had him escorted by house-elves into some room that was probably studded with precious gems and gold and marble and all the other signs of wealth. _Too good to come to the door himself, _Harry thought, but even that was a faint reflection of the thoughts going on in his head. He handed his cloak to the elf that reached for it and paced over so that he could look out one of the windows. It was enormous, diamond-shaped panes of glass laid together so that they gave a good view out over a garden of blue flowers.

"Potter?"

Malfoy's voice had gone softer, with something that sounded like concern creeping into it. Harry grimaced to himself. He didn't like that Malfoy was seeing him in a moment of weakness, but anyone else would have been worse, and the thought of going home and brooding in his silent house was intolerable. He needed the company.

"I confronted Callia about the news that she sold to the papers," he said, keeping his head turned away.

He expected some taunt, some remark about how Callia wasn't worth the sort of anxiety Harry was spending on her, but instead, Malfoy grunted softly and said something to a house-elf. Harry shut his eyes and leaned his forehead against the glass in front of him. It wasn't very cool, given the sunlight shining on it, but cooler than his furiously whirling brain.

"Here."

Harry started as Malfoy pushed something towards him, and turned with his hand on his wand, ready to shove a misplaced offer of sympathy back in his face. But Malfoy held a glass full of some iced amber drink , the smell alone almost enough to knock Harry on his arse. He blinked and accepted it. The house-elf must have brought it.

"Drink," Malfoy said. "That's the operation where you open your mouth and tilt the glass so that the liquid in it goes down your throat, _not _on my carpet." He eyed Harry expectantly for a moment, then snorted and said, "Perhaps I should show you." He reached out, one confident hand aiming for Harry's wrist and one for his shoulder.

"No, thank you," Harry said hastily, dodging, and tossed the drink in the direction of his mouth. Some of it missed and soaked his shirt. Malfoy laughed, and Harry glared at him through the sopping mess on his face.

Then he choked, because the drink only made him want to fall on his arse more when it was inside him. Malfoy pounded him on the back, chuckling.

"There you go," he said. "Give you something to think about other than the future ex-wife. Or should that be the ex-future wife? I don't usually have cause to refer to things like this, and so I don't know the proper term." He paused, visibly disturbed, then smiled and nodded. "The ex-fiancée. I like that better."

"You're an arse," Harry muttered, but there was no denying that he felt different than he had a moment ago. It wasn't a _good _kind of different, he hastily reassured himself, mopping at his face. Then he rolled his eyes-was he a wizard or not?-and cast a Cleaning Charm on himself to get rid of the scotch, or whatever else it was.

"Yes. But a pretty one." Malfoy leaned on a table nearby that looked too delicate for that kind of leaning, watching him attentively. "Do you need to talk about it?"

Harry blinked at him. An unexpectedly sensitive question for someone who had so far shown more of a tendency to trick him out of information he wanted to know, or spy on him, instead of simply asking.

Malfoy met his gaze, not smiling, and Harry shrugged. The openness seemed sincere, and while he could have talked to Ron or Hermione about breaking up with Callia-and would have to-he doubted that he could talk about all the reasons. Malfoy already knew the most likely source of their argument.

"She wanted to know if the information about me having children made of stone was true," Harry said. "I told her it wasn't, and offered to get tested."

"Why that?" Malfoy interrupted, thus proving that he wasn't the simple, receptive, listening audience that Harry had imagined. On the other hand, he doubted that those words had ever applied to Malfoy in his life. "You could use the lie to make her back away from you. You're destroying some of Pansy's hard work by saying that."

"Bugger her hard work," Harry said, and swallowed another gulp of the drink. When he looked up, Malfoy was giving him a slow smile that made his stomach contract.

"That's good," Malfoy said. "That's _good. _You need to find a challenge to fling yourself against, or you're working at less than your full potential. You're less than human, as a matter of fact." He went on before Harry could splutter in more than minor outrage. "Anyway, you still haven't explained why you told her it was a lie."

"I want to get married to _someone _someday, probably," Harry countered. "And I can't do that if a lie like that is in circulation. At the very least, no one who wanted to marry me could possibly agree to have children with me."

Malfoy folded his hands beneath his chin and eyed Harry meditatively. Harry glared back, ready to kick him if his next words were anything about being challenged or being less than human.

"I hadn't realized that you were thinking of the future in such detail," Malfoy said instead. "You gave me the impression that you were still stuck fearing the past, that you would keep the marriage intact if you could because it was less fearsome than change."

Harry shook his head. "I never wanted to marry Callia. There's a reason it was one of the last and greatest prices that Sandborn asked of me."

"Then why are you so upset that she chose to reject you and your engagement is dead?" Malfoy asked. His eyes were intent.

Harry studied the glass in his hands for long moments before answering. He knew that Ron and Hermione would ask the same question, though not with the same spin. And Ginny, and Luna, and the other Aurors in his Department, and...

And so many people. But for some reason, it felt like it was the most important to have the right answer for Malfoy, not any of those other people.

Harry grimaced. _Malfoy is becoming too important to you. You have to make sure that that doesn't affect your future plans._

"Harry?"

The shock of his first name on Malfoy's lips was like the first plunge into cold water. Harry met his eyes and answered far more honestly than he had meant to.

"Because I half-fear that no one else will ever want to marry me again. Like I've lost my chance with Callia, my last chance, and I won't know that for certain until it's too late and I'm dying old and alone."

Malfoy reached up and wrapped his fingers around Harry's wrist. "Poor Potter, loud and overdramatic as always," he murmured, eyes shining. "I can tell you this one thing, I don't think you'll ever be without admirers and suitors."

Harry snorted incredulously. "_Sure._"

"This has nothing to do with your status as Chosen One or wonderful Auror," Malfoy said, and leaned forwards as if seeking his own reflection in Harry's eyes. "It has to do with who you are, and the people who will see that."

The moment stretched, trembled on the point of snapping...

And that was _it. _Harry was tired of the way that Malfoy danced along the border of his life, flirting and laughing and taunting him without suffering from any of it himself. And then he would do something intense, like this, and Harry would have to know that it cost him nothing, that he wasn't touched by it.

So Harry reached out, and yanked him forwards, and kissed him.

_ Let's see the incredible bastard beat _that.


	17. The Spinning Clock

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Seventeen-The Spinning Clock_

Draco felt the first warm touch of Potter's lips on his, the insistent hand on the back of his neck, the rub of callused fingers over his soft skin-

And he surprised himself with the rush of fierce excitement that blasted through him and made him lean forwards, pressing Potter into the wall by the window, bringing his own hands into play on Potter's hips and his own tongue into play in the kiss. He was making soft grunting noises in the back of his throat, and that inspired him to make the kiss even better. That way, he wouldn't have to pay Potter to forget that he had made noises like that.

Potter broke off once and seemed as if he would mumble something against Draco's lips, but in the end he dived back into the kiss. Draco smiled against him, exhilarated, and thrust his tongue straight ahead, touching the tip of Potter's, which made him stiffen. _I like this._

It was a simpler thought than many of his, and all the more valuable for being so rare. He twisted his leg and brought his knee into position between Potter's legs, rubbing gently against his groin. Potter uttered a grunt of his own that somewhat evened the score and rose onto his toes.

It occurred to Draco suddenly, bursting over him like an eclipse, that he was probably the first one in seven years to receive Potter's true passion. Potter had held himself back from showing any once he became Sandborn's slave, and his relationship with Callia had never been about such things.

He had something special, something unique, something no one else would ever have even if Potter went on to numerous lovers after this.

That made Draco ache even more strongly to make this good for him. He cupped his hand flat over Potter's hip, rubbing, then curved his nails down to create stinging scratches that would complement the pleasure with a touch of pain. He shifted so that Potter was pressed less flat against the wall and softened the kiss, gentled it, rubbing his tongue back and forth until Potter moaned. He reached for his shirt, intending to pull it over Potter's head and reveal the expanse of a bare chest. His mouth watered to bite and chew and mark.

Potter was the one who hopped away, his hair wild and his mouth mussed and red. Draco licked a bleeding split in his own lip and smiled in what he hoped was an inviting manner and probably wasn't, if the suspicious way that Potter cocked his head was an indication.

"What the hell?" Potter demanded. "I know that you didn't really mean the flirting, it was just a ruse to fool the ones who might be paying too much attention to us, you said so-"

"I didn't really mean the flirting as long as you didn't mean it," Draco countered, stifling a sigh as he realized this was going to be another conversation with someone who didn't understand the way his world worked. "You were committed to freedom before anything else, or so I thought. So I did what was necessary to secure that and amuse myself at the same time. But if you are serious, then I'm serious."

"You-change based on what other people want?" Potter asked, staring at him.

Draco laughed at him. "What, and you don't? What else would you call your contract with Sandborn?"

* * *

Harry winced. The words hit him like a blow.

But then, everything Malfoy had done so far had hit him like a blow. The unexpectedly enthusiastic response to his kiss, the flirting, the offer of help in the first place, challenging Sandborn to his face-

There was no one else like him. Harry thought he could easily get lost in Malfoy if he didn't have their past history to keep him committed to resistance, and if he didn't know that most of the reason that Malfoy was involved with him in the first place came from the debt that he felt he owed.

Yet, at the same time...

"That doesn't make sense," he said thickly, and cursed the state of his lips as Malfoy looked at them and gave one of those private smiles. "Otherwise, you wouldn't seem as self-involved as you do. You would be like me. Selfless."

"Well, that's because you phrased the question in the wrong way." Malfoy seemed as happy to discuss the matter as he had been a few minutes before to kiss Harry, striding back and forth as he lectured. Harry didn't let himself look to see if Malfoy was hard, although he badly wanted to. "I don't change based on what random people want, or even what the Minister wants. But if someone I find attractive offers me choices, or one of my friends does, or even one of my enemies who invites me into an alliance, why not? I can at least try it and see what happens. It might not work out. In fact, it's worked out fewer times than it's crashed." Malfoy gave him a flashing smile. "But the times it's worked, it's been good enough that I keep going. I had a wonderful year with Astoria before she realized that she would never be able to compete with me. I've made allies of a few people who hated me before the war, and that was worthwhile, if only for the complementary tickets to Quidditch games." His eyelids lowered, and he shot Harry a smoldering glance. "I have the feeling that you could be worthwhile, too."

"_Stop _it," Harry said, flinging out one hand as though that would convince Malfoy. Malfoy did let his eyes dart to it, and then brought them back to Harry's face with what seemed a gesture of politeness.

"What and why?"

"This-this _dance _of yours," Harry said. He felt disgusted now, his ardor rapidly cooling. He should have known the kiss wouldn't change anything, wouldn't make Malfoy stop blowing hot and cold. "You act as though you want me, then you don't, and now you've made it clear that you could take or leave me, based on my own reactions. That's not the way an ally _or _a friend should act."

"What about a lover?" Malfoy asked, leaning forwards in interest.

"I haven't had one in long enough to make me incapable of answering that question," Harry said. "And I shouldn't have tried to make you one. Sorry, or whatever rubbish you'll accept in place of a proper answer." He glared at Malfoy and moved away, aiming for the door.

Malfoy danced around in front of him, not seeming to notice how embarrassing that motion could be. "I didn't mean to chase you off," he said. "I should have realized that you would be uncomfortable with honesty, surrounded by as many lies as you have been."

"That's not it, either," Harry said, and struggled hard to keep his mask of frozen calm. He was _not _going to give in and do what Malfoy wanted. Too many people did that, which would explain why he got away with as much as he did. "I don't _want you, _Malfoy. Amazing as that is."

"You kissed me like you wanted me."

The intense glow, the serious one, was back in his eyes. Harry folded his arms and glared. "I kissed you because I wanted you to act like a normal human being for once," he said. "And you won't. So why don't we just quit and go our separate ways?"

* * *

_Ah._

Yes, Draco should have understood. Potter had been emotionally constipated for so long that he couldn't relax and enjoy the free interplay of personal energies in the way that Draco wanted him to. He would be too stuck, too serious, insistent on seeing his personal perceptions of the world as truth.

So Draco reached out and drew him closer by the arms, kissing him lightly, so that Potter could break free at any time.

And he did, making a huge show of wiping his mouth. Draco grinned. Potter couldn't lie about the flush in his cheeks, about the mussed state of his hair that had resulted from fingers other than his own.

"Are you mad?" Potter demanded. "Didn't you hear what I just said?"

"Yes," Draco said. "I just didn't really care."

Potter took a step away from him, and the angle of his body told Draco that this was more serious than he had anticipated. Of course it was. Potter was always more bloody serious than anyone needed to be. "I don't want you as a lover when you take life that lightly," Potter said. "Sorry. That's just the way it has to be. You can still help me and get rid of this debt if you want, and so can the rest of the Slytherins. But I need someone whose main goal in life is not irritating me. At least, I need that kind of person in my bed."

Draco watched him thoughtfully. "I don't mean to irritate you," he said, when Potter clenched his jaw and stared through him. "But on the other hand, I think you could use someone who irritates you because you've slid through most of your life since the war avoiding irritation and trying to make life smooth and perfect for everyone else. And you could use someone who teaches you to laugh." _Not to mention that you look magnificent with your fire blazing through your eyes, but you probably wouldn't thank me for saying so._

"It's too-" Potter made a sharp gesture with one hand. That apparently expressed all sorts of things that he thought Draco should understand, because he went on without explaining what he meant. "For me, at least. I'm sure that it could work for someone else, and I hope you find someone who wants to be with you." He gave Draco a temperate smile. Draco wanted to applaud. It was one of the gentlest versions of _fuck off _he'd ever heard. "But even when I kissed you, you didn't do what I wanted-"

"And that's important, isn't it?" Draco nodded. "I understand. That was why you didn't object strenuously to marrying Callia. She would always do what you wanted, provided that what you wanted was a limp fish and someone who would never surprise you."

"That's not it, either!" Potter's eyes had that dangerous shine again. Draco reckoned that what he was doing was rather akin to standing in the middle of a storm and waving around a piece of sharp metal, but he couldn't resist. "I want someone I can fight beside, someone who will guard my back, someone I can _trust._"

"You can trust me to support you," Draco said. "But not forever. Astoria and I were together, and I couldn't always support her the way she wanted me to, either. She needed someone more boring."

"Stable," Potter snapped. "At least, from what I saw of them the other night, that's the case."

"Boring," Draco insisted. "She didn't like chaos and excitement in her life. There were other reasons, too, but it would be impolite to discuss them with you. That's to reassure you that I wouldn't betray your secrets to the press if we became lovers and then decided to end it," he added virtuously.

Potter buried his head in his hands. "You don't have any idea of the real source of my objections, do you?" he muttered.

"I think most of it comes down to honesty," Draco said. "I'm honest with my lovers about the sort of person I am. I can give them a good time, and loyalty while I'm with them, and I tell them jokes and make them laugh and irritate them and argue with them and let them know if I'm getting tired of them or if there's some other problem. But you prefer lies. You don't want pain. You want people to smile and smile and drift away from you. Look at the way you had to come to me for reassurance after this conversation with Callia, even though you didn't want to marry her and you must be glad that she's gone and you can't _seriously _fear that this rumor about you having stone children-not one of Pansy's more believable efforts, I must say-is going to prevent anyone from falling in love with you. You're not built for confrontation anymore. You want someone to soothe the sting."

Potter had dropped his hands from his face in the middle of that speech and was staring at Draco. Draco smiled serenely back and tipped his head to the side, wondering if Potter was considering murder. Astoria would have, if Draco had ripped into her like that, and Potter's nerves were apparently made of tissue. "Honest, remember? I'll always tell you what I mean, because that's more fun and I only lie to my enemies."

* * *

_That-_

_ That hurts._

Harry felt as though Malfoy had reached into his head and performed Legilimency on him, exposing all his secrets to himself the way that Harry had seen the secrets of Snape's past when he looked into the bastard's Pensieve. No, on second thought, Legilimency would have hurt less.

He wasn't _really _like that. He couldn't be. Harry shuddered and wanted to reject the thoughts that Malfoy's words sent fluttering up in him.

Unfortunately, those thoughts seemed more powerful than the confusion he had scrambled through after the kiss, and all of them confirmed what Malfoy had said. Why _had _the conversation with Callia upset him so much? He hadn't said anything to her that was particularly jarring, and she had accused him of lying and nothing else. Her words had been mild. He wasn't sure that she was capable of the depth of outrage that someone like Ginny or Hermione would have been.

But it had still hurt, still scored him, still driven him to Malfoy.

And what _had _he expected from Malfoy? Comfort? His friends would have been better at dispensing that, especially since they would have no reason to think that he wasn't in the right. Someone patting him on the back and telling him that he would find someone else? Again, Ron would have been an expert at that.

What had he come here for, but honesty?

Only he had thought he would hear honesty directed at Callia, and not him. Which...seemed like a bloody stupid thing to assume, after the way that Malfoy had challenged him, laughed at him, taunted him, and flirted with him in front of his boss.

"All right," Harry said at last. His voice creaked. "Thanks for...saying that. I reckon I needed to hear it."

"You did," Malfoy said. He seemed no more or less composed than he had been before. He watched Harry with shining grey eyes that could have been called compassionate or hard with equal truth. _Not that I would know what truth is, if I listen to him, _Harry thought, and flinched again. "Now, you have to decide whether you only kissed me to provoke a reaction to me, or something else."

"Yes, that was the only reason," Harry said. He found a flaw in Malfoy's logic then, and straightened to glare at him. "And if you're honest all the time except with your enemies, then how come you keep changing the way you flirt with me in private, where there's no one to be impressed with our ruse? You act as if you want me, then you laugh, and I can't be sure."

"Oh, is _that_ all," Malfoy said, in the same tone someone would use to say, _Oh, yes, I cleaned the toilet this morning. _"Yes, I want you. But in the ways I told you about, not in the 'I've fallen in love with your heroic manliness and love you for that and I'm waiting for you to sweep me off to bed' way that I think you want. And you're so uptight that you've taken every other sort of advance wrong. So I didn't think that telling you would help much."

"I don't want someone in love with my heroic manliness," Harry muttered. He was sure he was blushing.

"Yes, you do," Malfoy said, with maddening cheerfulness. "You want someone you can love and marry. And I really don't think that I'll ever be that person. If you want me back enough to go to bed for a casual good time, or because you want me to tease you and poke holes in that puffed-up pride of yours, that's fine. If not, then the kiss was just a test, and I passed it by baffling you more." He sounded incredibly pleased with himself.

Harry clenched his hands. He wondered how he could explain what he meant, how he could use words that were honest enough-or, maybe, knowing Malfoy, simple enough-to get his point across without having it mistaken.

Malfoy leaned on the wall and watched him calmly in response. Harry ground his teeth and said, slowly, "I want someone who can do those things, but I have to know they _mean _it. This started because of the debt you feel you owe me. Is it only that?"

"No," Malfoy said, voice softer now. "But that's a part of it, and I'm not going to pretend, like I said, that I'm in love with you and there's something deep and special and unique between us. It can grow beyond the debt. The debt will always be at the bottom. Tolerate that now, or walk away." He reached out and picked up the glass that Harry had set down, taking a sip from the drink left in it.

_What am I doing? _Harry asked himself as he moved a slow step forwards. _Something stupid, _he answered himself. _If I have sex with Malfoy and it doesn't work out, it's going to have consequences I don't want. _

But on the other hand...

The confrontation with Callia shouldn't have rattled him so much. He should have been readier for change. He shouldn't have dreaded confronting his friends so much that he'd dreamed about running away from them instead.

_I need to take a risk. And if it doesn't work out, at least I'll have new consequences to deal with, and maybe that will allow me to live again._

He leaned forwards and kissed Malfoy again, and this time he put all the strength and warmth he could call up into it.

* * *

Draco smiled against Potter's lips, and hoped he wouldn't take it the wrong way. That had been the choice that he'd hoped Potter would make, but he couldn't control that, and after some of the things that Potter had said and done, Draco didn't even know for certain that he could _persuade _him. Potter had his head not in the clouds or up his arse, but in some strange region unknown to the rest of humankind.

None of that decreased Draco's desire to make his brain vibrate in his skull.

He slid his hand down Potter's hip, cupping and stroking, aiming for his groin and the insistent erection he could feel. Potter only shifted closer to make it easier for him, a low, eager sound breaking from his throat.

Draco bit his lip, and when Potter opened his mouth wider, perhaps to protest, swept his tongue in at the same time moment as his fingers worked Potter through the cloth. He had always found it interesting to combine his pleasures, not to mention that he might make his lovers more excited.

Potter made the low noise again and then reached down and pressed the back of his hand against Draco's cock. Draco broke away to gasp, but buried his face in Potter's shoulder so that he wouldn't sound embarrassing.

"I've never done this with a bloke before." Potter's voice was softly rough, as though he assumed there was anything he could ask that Draco wouldn't be tempted to grant him. "If I do something wrong, just tell me."

"Doing fine so far," Draco said, and then began kissing his way down Potter's throat. From the way Potter arched against him, he both rather liked that and hadn't known he liked it. Draco muffled soundless laughter again and nipped hard, but decided from Potter's flinch that that wasn't as much of a successful experiment.

His hands were learning Potter's, his body was learning his, and Draco had the impression that this would be a pleasure in more ways than the obvious. He looked up to smile at Potter, wanting him to know that.

Potter was bending over him with an intense expression-of course, Draco should have expected the intensity, even if Potter was a little less serious than usual at the moment-and his eyes were a shade of darkness that Draco hadn't known green could attain. His mouth set into a firm line when he saw Draco looking. Part of him, Draco suspected, still wanted to hide.

But he shook his head a moment later, and joined their mouths together for a sucking nip that made Draco moan in approval. Yes, that was _much _better than some of the things that he had planned. He curled a leg around Potter's hip and stroked his foot up and down his arse. Potter jolted at that, and for the first time, started to attack back, biting at Draco's pulse point.

"Yes, that's right," Draco gasped, and various other nonsensical things that he didn't bother to remember. He let Potter press him back against the wall and open his shirt. His pulse was fluttering in front of Potter, tender, vulnerable, and when Potter's teeth closed over it as if they would tear it out through Draco's skin, Draco arched up hard enough to make his hair fly back.

"Like that, noted," Potter said, and his capable, dangerous hands folded back Draco's trousers and pants. Draco looked down to watch his cock bob a few inches from Potter's mouth as he knelt. He wondered if Potter was the kind to use teeth, and if he should be worried.

Potter didn't. He only stayed there, staring as if he didn't know what to do. Draco started to smile and say that he could do anything he wanted, only _move, _please.

Then Potter moved. He leaned in until his nose rested on Draco's cock and rubbed it up and down, breathing out a wash of hot breath at the same time.

Draco laid his head back on the wall and came, simply and sweetly, a coruscating rush that weakened his legs and made him have to sit down. Or slide down. Anyone could have used either word, and Draco wouldn't have been picky.

Potter pulled back, wiping semen off his face, and off his glasses. Draco forgot about his tiredness and lunged at him.

Oh, this was the latest wonderful thing in an evening full of wonderful things, pressing Potter to the floor, feeling those muscles contract and flex beneath him, knowing Potter could throw him off and was _choosing _not to, feeling Potter squirm beneath him as Draco applied his fingers directly to his groin.

"Rock against me," he gasped, and slid one knee down and into position.

And Potter clasped his legs around it and rode it as if he had always done such things.

Tipping his head back. His throat gleaming with sweat. His chest heaving as if he were fighting his breath, as if he didn't want it to come out fast, and Draco reached down and pressed in _just _the right place, over his heart-

It was hot and wet when Potter came against him, which was more than fine. Draco curled around him and yawned into the face of the universe that might try and part them, resting his cheek against Potter's shoulder. Potter reached up and clumsily patted at his hair.

"That," said Potter. He faltered and fell silent, of course.

Draco smiled, knowing Potter couldn't see him from this angle, and remembered to raise the wards around their particular room so that Pansy and Theo couldn't intrude. The wards would break if blood was spilled in the room or if he screamed in true pain, but not for any other reason. Pansy would know why and draw the right conclusions. Theo would probably need it explained to him.

Potter rolled back and forth beneath him for a moment, uneasy. Draco reached for his wand again, cast a Cushioning Charm on the floor, and then slung himself more stolidly across Potter's stomach.

After a moment, Potter gave in and wrapped his arms around Draco, settling-something he was used to doing, Draco thought.

_But this time, it's in a good cause._


	18. The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Eighteen-The First Day of the Rest of Your Life_

Harry opened his eyes slowly the next morning. He felt soft sheets beneath him, a pillow under his head, and couldn't fathom immediately why that was wrong. After all, while his bed in his house was nothing extravagant, he didn't make it uncomfortable on purpose.

Then he remembered that the feeling of wrongness was more likely to come from the warmth pressing at his back, the arm slung casually over his waist, the hand resting in the middle of his stomach. And the residual stickiness that he could feel clinging to his face, although he'd washed it and used a Cleaning Charm before he went to bed.

Before _they _went to bed.

Harry let his eyes travel slowly around Malfoy's room. It was decorated well enough, he reckoned, but what struck him was what _wasn't _there. No Malfoy family tapestry on the wall. No portraits of sneering, disapproving ancestors. None of the subtle markers that Harry had identified in the offices of pure-blood Aurors who disliked the new status quo: worn blades, golden cauldrons, glass jars of house-elf make, silk robes. Not objects that were _used _for anything, unless reminding someone that you considered them inferior over and over again was considered a use.

"What are you thinking about?" Malfoy's lips moved across the back of his neck, and his hand swooped lower. Harry closed his eyes and thought for a moment that he had never known anyone as energetic in the morning as Malfoy.

But those led to other thoughts that he didn't want to entertain right now, and Harry moved Malfoy's hand gently aside. "I have a plan," he said.

Malfoy moved away from his back, and announced when Harry didn't turn to look at him, "This is me cringing in terror."

Harry rolled over slowly, unsure exactly what he would see when he did. He blinked when he saw that Malfoy was naked; he'd expected pants if nothing else. Malfoy met his eyes and gave him a slow, appreciative smile. Come to that, Harry supposed that he was wearing less than he'd thought. No shirt, no robes, no socks or boots. Only pants and trousers shoved down low enough that Malfoy's cock would have resting right in the crack of his arse-

Harry pushed away the thought of what might follow that if he let it, and nodded. "I think I know a way that we can get Sandborn out of power without killing him or even controlling his thoughts."

"That would be remarkable," Malfoy said calmly. "If such a thing was possible."

"You think you know everything about me," Harry marveled. "You think you know exactly what will stop Sandborn, although you've failed once before, and if you had asked me in more detail about using a potion on him, I could have told you exactly what you needed to know. What's remarkable is the extent of your arrogance."

Malfoy blinked as if slapped, and then he smiled. "I did promise myself that I would be the one to call up your fire," he murmured. "Fine. What is this famous plan?"

Harry sat up, forcing himself to ignore the way that the sheets slid across his bare skin and the way Malfoy studied him with bright interest. For the first time, he could share his third soul with someone else and not feel that he was betraying the careful facades he had set up, the lies he needed to tell. Malfoy wouldn't betray his third soul to anyone else. He had said he wouldn't, and Harry trusted him.

And Harry knew certain things about him, too, now, such as the location of his bedroom and the strength of his wards. He was fairly confident that he could Apparate straight through them if he wanted to.

Which he would only want to, really, if Malfoy betrayed him.

"Sandborn knows that he can't hold power as easily as he does without me," Harry said. "I couldn't do anything about that before, because he hadn't done anything that would be cause for me to turn on him."

Malfoy snorted hard enough to ruffle a few of the blankets.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I mean, he didn't think it would be enough. I was the one who came to him in the first place and proposed the contract, remember. He didn't force it on me."

"I wish I'd been there when you did, to convince him not to go along with it," Malfoy muttered, but reluctantly gestured for him to continue. "What's different now from three days ago?"

"Now, I have actions that I can use as excuses for doubting him," Harry said. "The way he acted under the potion. Rettern's investigation. His increasingly erratic actions in regard to me, such as the way he insists on meeting with me alone and not at the prearranged times we used in the past."

"He knows that you know about his potion allergies," Malfoy pointed out. "Your first excuse won't work."

Harry smiled tightly. "During his first episode with allergies to a potion, he became paranoid around others, but he didn't attack me seriously. Not _me. _He showed that he still trusted me to protect his back from his unseen enemies. Now, he's made a serious effort to kill me. Even if I attribute it to the allergies, I can say to his face that something must have changed in his mind, something about me. He can consider me someone he needs to strangle, even if only for a moment. If I had been a little less quick, he might have succeeded."

"I'm sorry."

Harry blinked as Malfoy reached out and took his hand, running his fingers in neat circles over Harry's knuckles. That sparked more images he didn't need, and he rolled his eyes at himself. _God, you have sex for the first time in six years and you act like it's some special occasion. _"For what?"

"For putting you in danger," Malfoy murmured.

"You couldn't have anticipated that, not without knowing about the allergies."

"But it was still a consequence of my actions." Malfoy tilted his head, making his hair fall about him in a curtain that looked like icewater, it was so pale. "If I'm going to claim honesty for myself, and honesty with my lovers, then I should be able to live with acknowledging that I caused this, whether I meant to or not."

Harry blinked. "I don't know whether you're more mature than I thought you were, or less," he said at last, because he thought he might explode if he didn't share his thoughts on this with Malfoy. "That's one of the weirdest things I've ever heard."

"Probably because you've spent the last seven years running from the natural consequences of your actions," Malfoy said, with such extreme sweetness that it took Harry a minute to realize what he'd said.

When he realized it, his third soul subsumed the others, and he leaned forwards so that he could sink his wand into the soft skin where Malfoy's ribs ended. "Do you want to repeat that?" he asked gently.

* * *

As a matter of fact, Draco did. He wanted to say similar insulting things until Potter forgot the caution and the plans and rolled on top of him so they could continue having sex. They'd tried it with Potter beneath him last night, and Draco was extremely curious to see how it would work out the other way.

But he also knew that there was more to life than sex, and he had to give Potter the chance to discover for himself how much he would miss Draco now that he'd had a taste of him. Anything else wasn't fair, especially with someone who was probably as close to a virgin as you could get at this age. So Draco smiled and said, "I'd like to, but I think we have more important things to worry about. Do you really intend to declare to Sandborn that you'll oppose him from now on?"

Potter's hands twitched, and he looked away. Draco permitted that. He had to get hold of his own conflicting impulses, more than likely. Draco rocked back on his heels and let Potter look his fill if he wanted-he was always happy to have his body admired, provided the person doing the admiring was attractive in return-but Potter chose not to this time. Draco shrugged. He thought there'd be other times.

"No," Potter muttered. "I intend to start hinting around to others that I don't trust him as much as I used to. Look away from him during important meetings. Touch my throat when I can plausibly pretend that I don't see him looking. Start drawing away from him when it comes to my friends."

Draco nodded. "Ah," he said. "Preparing the ground for the moment when you have to confess the truth to them. It won't come as such a shock if they suspect that you were unhappy before then."

"Will you _leave _that?"

Potter had turned back with his teeth bared, and as they looked strong enough to rip a piece of sensitive flesh off Draco's body, he raised his hands protectively in front of him, nodding. "All right, fine. But I think that'll help. And it's a cleverer plan than I expected from you."

"Oh," Potter said, looking at him as if the compliment was a hot coal that he had to juggle from hand to hand. "Thanks. I suppose."

Draco nodded and stood up, sliding out from between the sheets with a delicious little shudder. He enjoyed that sensation, although he only got to feel it when he slept totally naked, and he only did that when he had someone else in bed with him. "So," he said. "Pansy and Theo will suspect what happened, but they won't tell anyone. Do you want me to?"

"_No_," Potter said. "Are you mad?"

"Hmmm." Draco considered him. It would be too bad if Potter decided that this was to be one tumble and no more, precisely because Draco had enjoyed it so much and Potter had seemed to as well. In fact, Potter's pleasure was a large part of what had made the experience richer than usual for Draco. But then again, Potter was the one who to make decisions like this for his own political future. "If you insist."

Potter rolled his eyes. "I don't want anything like that coming out this early. Sandborn would figure out that my rebellion runs deeper than simple distrust of him, if he knew that, a few hours after Callia rejected me, I went running to you. We're supposed to have a casual flirtation, remember? One that I'm on the brink of rejecting, but intrigued by despite myself? That doesn't fit with a night spent in bed together."

Draco blinked. "I really _should _have thought of that myself," he said. "Sorry. I do appear to lose more than a few ounces of cleverness around you."

Potter rolled his eyes again. "So sad, that my stupidity is catching," he muttered.

"Did I say that? No." Draco leaned across the bed and kissed him, because he could and he wanted to and he didn't think Potter would object. Potter lifted a loose hand, wavering, and then dropped it back to the sheets. Draco pulled slowly away from him, sighing as the warmth at his lips dissipated. "I mean that you affect me too powerfully, and I don't always know what I'm going to do as a consequence."

"Oh," Potter said, and Draco could see that that would never have occurred to him. Draco tilted his had and examined him more attentively. Did he not know what he looked like, moved like, sounded like, smelled like?

_Well, no. Probably not. That wasn't part of his appeal even before he started dating Callia. I suspect Sandborn thought he would be more chaotic and harder to handle if it was._

_And he's allowed his public image to influence his private one to a great extent._

"We have our plan now," Draco said. "What can I do to help?"

Potter visibly reached out and pulled several disparate aspects of himself together, which Draco had to admit was more than he had thought the man could do when he was half-naked like that. But he'd presumably had to think in more stressful situations, as an Auror. Draco waited, and Potter's eyes, focused on the far wall and the single mirror that hung there, flickered as though many flames were springing to life behind them and being dismissed.

Then Potter frowned and said, "I don't think I'll need help for several days at least. That's how much time it should take to convince Sandborn that my trust in him is falling apart, and it's not simple coincidence, or results from the loss of Callia. Do whatever else you can, whether it's bribing the people who would have testified at your trials-" he gave Draco a small, mean smile that said he knew Draco wouldn't be bribing all of them and didn't care "-or adding more dimensions to the plan. Keep them concealed from Sandborn as much as you can. I need him focused on me, not distracted."

"We would have more luck in making him fall apart if we strike from multiple directions," Draco pointed out mildly. "If that's what we want to make him do."

"It's not what we want to make him do," Potter said. Draco had opened his mouth to argue when Potter continued. "We want him to fall apart in a specific way, not in the sense of scattering his pieces all over the place. And that means that we need to keep him focused on the one distraction. The time to bring you in is going to be when we can be reasonably sure that he would start to recover otherwise."

"What you suggest sounds more ruthless to me than killing him," Draco said. He wouldn't let Potter forget that he was essentially all right with murder, since he had accused Draco of being all right with it earlier.

"It would," Potter said, and no more. He rose from the bed and held out a casual hand, summoning his shirt and robes to him with a nonverbal spell. Draco lay back down on the bed to lounge and to watch him dress. He did it with neat, efficient movements, as exciting in their own way to watch as the frenzied way he had stripped them off last night.

He paused at the door of the bedroom and turned to look at Draco. Draco sat up, sensing something important was coming, not sure what it was.

In the end, it turned out, not much. Potter nodded once, and then faded out in the direction of the front door. Draco heard a house-elf appear and offer to escort him, on command. Draco flung himself back and stared at the ceiling.

He could have used a visit from Daphne right then, or even one from Pansy or Astoria. He didn't think he had done something he would regret; he rarely did, anymore, because he knew too much about what he liked and wanted. But he did feel rather as if he'd launched an owl into the air without knowing if it would ever return.

* * *

"Mate?"

Ron's question was soft. Harry spent a moment facing the office door as he shut it, and deciding how he was going to play this.

No question that it would have to end, all the deceptions that he'd put into place instead of friendships, all the lies he'd handed them. Harry decided at that moment that he would have to let them make up their own minds when they knew the full truth. Maybe some of them would stay close, maybe some of them would walk away. No way he could know ahead of time, really. They were less predictable than he had formed himself to be.

But at the moment, they couldn't know the real purpose of his rebellion against Sandborn. They would distract the Minister at exactly the wrong moment, rather like Malfoy if Harry had let him help.

He turned around, smiled at Ron, and then let the smile waver and break and vanish. It was a strange mixture of his first soul-this was for the best-and his second-this was his friend-and his third-he was doing this because he wanted to rather than in return for some gain from the contract-that made him say, "Callia decided that she couldn't believe me. We called off the engagement."

Ron stood up, then sat down again. He looked as though he wanted to cheer and was suppressing it. Harry suppressed his smile in return. He probably wasn't supposed to notice the _happiness _the news caused Ron.

Ron finally shook his head and said with a low whistle, "That's rough, mate. Couldn't you make her see that it was just stupid lies?"

Harry sighed then, and sat down on his desk. He still regretted the way things had gone with Callia, in part because he thought she would have taken the news of the contract's existence better than his friends would have. That was his one _chance _to be completely honest with someone he'd fooled, and he'd thrown it away.

_No. You have others. You made the decision to have them. You just have to put the decisions into effect. _

"I don't know," Harry said. "It was a pretty grotesque rumor. I think that was what really drove her away. I didn't deny it fast enough, and the thought of it happening to her...it was too much."

"Bet it wouldn't have been too much for Ginny," Ron muttered.

Harry rolled his eyes. "In the imaginary world where I married Ginny and Luna married Neville, I'm sure it wasn't." Ron had lived happily in delusions for a year or two after he and Hermione got married, certain Ginny would leave Luna and "come back" to Harry. Harry and Hermione had made up elaborate details of the imaginary world where that had happened to content him.

"Of course it's like that," Ron said staunchly, nodding so seriously that Harry eyed him for a minute. Then he ruined it by grinning. "And in that world, where are all things are as they should be, Hermione left me for some fit bloke who appreciated her a lot more when we were twenty than I ever did."

Harry laughed. "I don't think fit blokes are what she looks for."

That led to a pretend wrestling match, and Harry settled down behind his desk feeling happier than he had for some time. He hadn't actually taken the first step towards convincing Sandborn he distrusted him yet-that came with a letter he wrote to be taken to the Head Auror when he went to lunch-but he'd committed now. He'd chosen. There would be a lot of pain still to come, of course. Ron didn't know the real source of his argument with Callia yet, or anything else.

But it was a beginning.

* * *

"Is that a bite on your neck, Draco?" Pansy leaned into the fire as if she would jump through it and into the Manor if she could. Draco gave her a smug smile over his scone. He had opened the connection enough for a firecall but not enough for Flooing. There were several reasons for that, but frustrating Pansy was not the smallest one.

"Yes," Draco said, and let a few seconds pass, while Pansy practically wriggled on the edge of her chair. Then Draco smiled and gave in, just before she would have had to feign boredom and declare this minor mystery not worthy of her time. "From Potter's teeth."

Pansy laughed, leaning back in her chair and tossing her dark hair over her shoulder with one hand. Draco blinked. He usually felt at least a pang of desire when she did that, but not this morning. He wondered for a moment if that was what people meant when they said one person had ruined them for someone else. He hoped not. It was an uncomfortable feeling, not a romantic one.

_Most likely I'm simply exhausted from last night, _he decided, and nodded to himself in satisfaction as he figured that out.

"He broke up with his little fiancée and came straight to you," Pansy said. She was glowing softly with delight, in a way that seemed to make her skin more translucent, and at moments like these, Draco could see why Theo had wanted to marry her. "I knew it."

"I never said anything about his fiancée," Draco protested.

Pansy waved a hand. "But you know my strength when I want to persuade someone of something, and Callia wasn't a strong target." Pansy's tendency to read the world in terms of herself would have been more annoying if she'd been right less often, Draco thought. She leaned forwards again. "And did you teach him how good it can be, when he's with a man?"

"He was a most eager student," Draco said. "Practically virginal."

Pansy sighed longingly. "I remember the days when Theo was like that."

Draco snorted. "Theo had had more sex when you two got married than _you _had."

"Yes, and I was responsible for most of it," Pansy said, beaming at him. She laughed, presumably at the expression on Draco's face. "What, you never noticed the evening we disappeared with Daphne?"

"No," Draco said indignantly. Daphne had never told him about that, the traitor. Of course, Daphne had odd morals about some things, and found it more profitable to drop subtle hints about others rather than explain them outright. "When was this? I must have been out of the common room, or the pub, or wherever we were. I would have _noticed._"

"It was the common room," Pansy said. "And you were too busy complaining to Blaise about the way that Potter ignored you, if I remember correctly."

"I was _not_," Draco said. He remembered that conversation well, now that he considered it, but he'd thought he'd successfully buried it in everyone else's minds, especially because that was about the beginning of his arguments with Pansy and their spectacular decision not to marry after all, the way that most people in their House had assumed they would. "He should have paid more attention to me at the time, if he was going to bother to free me from Azkaban at all."

"Of course he should have," Pansy said. "And now you can fuck him into the floor as punishment for ignoring you then. Or are you going to use some chains first, leave him wanting for hours? I think you should. They-"

Draco shut down the Floo connection. Pansy was, sometimes, too much.

Then he turned and considered the list of possible witnesses that Daphne had retrieved for him.

Potter's crude idea of bribery had some merit. But Draco knew by now that Galleons were far too unsophisticated a tool for most jobs of the sort. They were hard, for one thing, and they shone, and they had only one significance. Far too many people could look at them and have to turn their heads away, unable to bend them into some other shape and justify their acceptance of money to themselves.

But there were other things people wanted, and they had more fluid shapes. Donations to certain charities. Political alliances. Interviews with someone famous-and Draco would be in place to offer them an interview with Potter, soon enough, or at least with Potter's lover. (Going to the papers with secrets about their love life was right out, of course, but not if he had _permission_). A nice dinner, in the case of a few who weren't doing so well right now, or a debt paid off.

Some of them would appreciate what he was doing. More wouldn't. That was all right. All Draco had to do was create some goodwill for himself.

Since the end of the war, when he had decided to live in the way he wanted to, he'd always been good at that.

_Of course I'm not going to bribe them, Potter, _Draco thought, and went to begin the primping necessary to add to his appearance. _I'm going to charm them into the palm of my hand._

_ The same way I did with you._


	19. These Dangerous Days

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Nineteen-These Dangerous Days_

"Will you not forgive me, Harry? I never meant to endanger you."

It was easier than Harry had thought to meet Sandborn's eyes and nod. "I know, Jared," he whispered. "There's a lot you would be willing to do, but not that. I _do _know that."

Sandborn looked at him with a face that was bright even though he wasn't smiling at the moment. Harry knew it was because he rarely called the man by his first name. Well, there were reasons for that, and Harry was never more glad that he had taken up the habit than now. It would be the first indication of difference, and if Sandborn wanted to take it as a _good _difference at first, that was fine. God knew that Harry would disabuse him quickly enough.

"Good. Good, that's good," Sandborn said, and then seemed to realize how ridiculous he sounded and shook himself back to reality. "So. We have yet to discuss how we are going to handle Rettern's investigation."

Harry frowned. "Is she doing anything worth moving openly to crush? There's been no further reports on it, that I heard. I can't believe that she's really going to uncover anything worth paying attention to."

"She'll uncover nothing because there's nothing to uncover," Sandborn said, with a quick, keen look in Harry's direction.

"Of course," Harry said, and glanced away for the first time.

He could feel Sandborn studying him, watching every movement he made as jealously as a lover watching someone flirt with another. No, more jealously than that, Harry thought, because he couldn't imagine that Malfoy would feel jealous of anything except an orgy that Harry hadn't invited him to.

That nearly caused a smile to cross his face. Granted, it would probably have been a small, tight smile, but still a distraction and a slip that Harry couldn't really afford.

"What is wrong?" Sandborn's voice had heightened, quickened.

Harry made himself turn back, and calmed the muscles in his body that wanted to snap and launch him in a quick leap to the side. It didn't take that much deception, after all, to feign fear of someone who had nearly killed him. "Nothing, sir. Of course you're right. The papers must have recognized that Rettern had nothing to back up her accusations with, and that's why they're not supporting her."

Sandborn, leaning a hip on his desk, nodded, still looking at him with the subtle light changed to a frown. Then he shrugged, turned, and picked up a file from his desk. "There's something else I want you to look into," he said, turning around and tossing the file to Harry.

Harry let himself flinch. Then he caught the file before it hit the floor, but the flinch had come first, and from the intense stillness in Sandborn's body, he had not only seen it, he knew what it meant.

"What was that?" he asked. Harry wondered if he wanted to deny himself the knowledge or simply hoped to conceal his own reaction from Harry.

"Sir?" Harry looked up from the file, which he had flipped open with indecent haste. "It looks like a file on Malfoy. You want me to look into his potion-making skills and find out what we have on him?" He carefully shaded his voice, his first soul glowing behind his eyes like a beating heart. There was resentment there, irritation, and eagerness that he hoped Sandborn would pick up on when he seemed so concentrated on the moment. Harry had to give the impression of someone drawn against his will to investigate Malfoy, but grateful for the excuse to spend time with him nonetheless.

"Not that," Sandborn said, jerking his head at the file. "_That. _The way you ducked when I threw the file, as if you thought that..." He hesitated, as though the words would make it real, and then spoke them doggedly. Harry had never thought him a coward. "As if you thought that I was going to hit you."

"Did I?" Harry pitched his voice a notch higher than normal, coughed, and dragged it back down. "Sorry, sir. Of course. I-didn't mean to."

Sandborn used one hand to sweep aside a whole pile of excuses. "Never mind what you _meant. _What _happened _is what I'm interested in. Why did you do that?"

"For silly reasons," Harry said promptly. This was the part of the conversation he had scripted out in his mind, and he was going to stick to it. Sandborn had stepped perfectly into the baited and set trap. "Because I had to think of the way that you attacked me as a battle situation, but I know now that it wasn't. It was simply your idiosyncratic reaction to a potion. I'll remember that, but it's one thing for my brain to know it and another thing for my Auror instincts to." He looked directly at Sandborn and offered up a weak smile that broke apart when Sandborn stared at him. "After all, when people try to choke me, usually I'm trying to arrest them in return, you know?"

As he had meant it to, the joke fell flat. Sandborn shook his head. "I never meant to kill you," he said.

"Of course, sir," Harry said, and his voice was almost perfect except for the tiny quaver of doubt, which he bit the inside of his cheek over. "I know that."

"But you _don't _know it, not if you're acting like this." Sandborn sidled closer to him, one hand reaching out in a gesture that Harry would describe as yearning, if he wanted to describe it as anything at all. "Tell me what I can do to make you feel better."

Harry took a deep breath and looked at the floor. "You don't have to change anything about the way you do things," he said. He made sure that Sandborn could barely hear his voice, and had to strain to get that much. "I'm the one with the problem, which makes me the one who has to change. I wish-I wish you would see that, sir. My problem is my problem."

"My potions allergy caused the problem in the first place." Sandborn stepped gently away from him, as though he thought that motions like that would impact Harry's mood about the assault _now_. "If I promise that I won't do anything like that ever again, would that help?"

"Can you promise not to be allergic to those particular potions ingredients again, sir?" Harry shook his head. "That's why I say it's my problem and not yours. You're the one who suffered, and I'm the one who's acting like-like you deliberately tried to kill me rather than being under the influence of something that made you act unlike yourself."

Sandborn's face was shadowed. "I would still prefer it if you let me make restitution."

Harry started to open his mouth, then slammed it shut again and turned his head to the side.

"What is it?" Sandborn's voice turned harsh and brittle, as though it would break into shards of bone at any second. "I have asked you before not to lie to me, or to act as though anything I could give you would be too much."

"I would prefer it," Harry said, letting his voice waver and break, "if I could work with someone else on matters like the Rettern investigation and the next few public appearances that I have to put in rather than taking orders directly from you."

The silence in the room was loud enough then to qualify it as a noise in itself. Harry swallowed as much to break that silence as for any other reason and glanced up at Sandborn.

Who was looking into a corner of the room, his jaw working as he evidently fought down the words he wanted to say.

"Sir?" Harry ventured quietly.

"I didn't realize that it had affected you that much," Sandborn said, and this time his voice had strength again, the strength of iron that Harry was used to hearing from him. It would have taken fine ears indeed, or long experience with the man, to realize that there was a tremor _under _the surface of the iron that rendered it molten and less than trustworthy.

"You tried to kill me," Harry said, and now his voice splintered and rose again. His first soul was breathing in every motion he made, and he could only tell that he was acting when he listened to the center of himself where the third dwelt. "I can still feel your fingers on my throat when I go to sleep at night. No, it's _not _fun, and it's _not _pleasant, and I hate it." He paused and turned his back on Sandborn, clutching the file he'd tossed him as if he could wrinkle the papers inside it and thus render them harmless.

"It wasn't your fault," he said. "That's what I keep telling myself. It wasn't your fault."

"But I should have been able to hold back," Sandborn said, and his voice was full of all the earnestness Harry could wish, and would have felt awful about compelling if this had been real and Sandborn the friend that he had always wanted to consider himself to Harry. "I don't know why the potion made me so suspicious of you, although I think that was Malfoy's intent in the first place. If someone else has you, even just as a friend or employee, then he has to corrupt that link so that he can have you for himself."

_That _was an interpretation that Harry hadn't thought of, and he twitched his head without looking back. "I don't get that impression from him," he muttered. "But we know that I'm not the most trustworthy witness when it comes to him."

"No. Forgive me, Harry, but you aren't."

Swallowing again, Harry turned around and gave Sandborn a hesitant smile. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you for being so understanding and trying to understand. I want to work with someone else for right now, but I don't think it'll have to endure long. I'll...come back soon."

Sandborn nodded. "Do what you need to do," he said. "Take as much time as you need. So long as you can come back and we can be partners again."

Harry debated inwardly, decided that the time was wrong to take that as the insult to Ron that he wanted to take it as, and bowed himself to the door. Sandborn kept a smile on his face all the way, and as far as Harry could tell, it was sincere. That meant that Sandborn was convinced Harry's fear of him and desire to stay as far away from him as possible was temporary.

_Keep telling yourself that, _Harry thought, and then stepped out of the office and stood there, shivering, until a convenient witness came by: Auror Stine, who was caught somewhere in between being convinced that Harry was the legend he appeared to be and trying to treat him like a normal person. She screeched to a stop and eyed him apprehensively.

"Auror Potter?" she asked, when he didn't move. "Are you all right? Has someone tried to assassinate the Minister?" She gave his scar the covert glance that people used when they were trying to think of a good way to ask whether it was burning.

"No," Harry said. "Something happened in the office that I wasn't comfortable with, but..." He pretended to notice who he was talking to and gathered himself with a little shake and a meaningless smile. "I'm fine, Auror. Thank you for your concern."

He shivered again as he turned away, and saw the subtle blaze light in Auror Stine's eyes.

The seed was planted.

* * *

"Explain to me why I should welcome you into my house, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco smiled. He knew better than the forbidding words would have let him, if he had chosen to pay attention to that only. Kelly Marks had that slight twitch at the corner of her eye that said she was interested in speaking to him, but she had her arms folded and her leg cocked behind her door in such a way that she could shut it with a slight motion. He would have to persuade her of her own interest.

"Because I have a donation to make," Draco said. "Galleons that long to fly away from my impure hands and into a cleaner place." He smiled at her again, this time letting his lips widen until she smiled reluctantly back. "And I thought it might as well be the coffers of Labor Holds as anywhere else."

Marks waited until Draco genuinely thought he would have to back away and try his luck elsewhere. Then she nodded slightly and stepped into the house, calling over her shoulder, "Come in."

Draco did, glancing around as he entered. Marks's house doubled as the offices for Labor Holds, a charity that did its best to give work to unemployed wizards and experience to people who needed to do _something _while they worked out problems, like new illnesses or general malaise, that had driven them from their old positions. Draco admitted that the decor-plain white walls with unrealistically cheery pictures of waving wizards here and there, lists of jobs, lists of requirements-fit that role, but he wouldn't have wanted to live here.

"Why the need to make this donation?" Marks asked, once they were seated in the inner office. Draco was relieved to see the few touches of something that made her human here, the desk larger than it needed to be and of a more shiny, reflective wood, and the walls behind her bright with personal photographs. Marks put her hands behind her head and studied him, her red hair and brown eyes giving him the uncomfortable vision of a Weasley business owner. "I quite understand about Galleons burning your hands, but you're not the sort of person who understands what work means, or why it's important."

Draco adopted an injured expression. "Simply because I don't do it myself doesn't mean I don't _understand _it."

"Yes, it does," Marks said, uncompromising. "Tell me why."

"Because," Draco said, and he dropped the gentle manner into the rubbish bin where it belonged, leaning forwards until he nearly crossed the shiny desk, "I found your name on a list of people who were prepared to testify against me when I was tried for being a stupid child, and I want to know why."

Marks dropped her smile and narrowed her eyes as if squinting into strong sunlight. Draco squinted back, to let her know how ridiculous she looked, and Marks blinked and dropped her hands to her lap.

"You weren't being tried for being a stupid child," she said, in the throaty, outraged murmur that Draco had heard her use when someone wouldn't hire a proven thief and incompetent. How _dare _they have common sense? "You were being tried for the Mark on your arm."

"And because of who my parents were, and because the Ministry wanted my family's money and property," Draco said, nodding in the manner of someone who had heard the same story multiple times. "Fine. We can agree on all that. But what I want to know is why your name was on that list."

Marks watched him. She had the ability, sometimes, to fasten a cold mask on her features that Draco couldn't penetrate and which no twitches would escape. But even the donning of that mask was revealing, Draco thought. This matter of offering her services as a witness was important to her, more important than Draco had anticipated.

"You have no idea," she whispered at last, when Draco went on staring and so showed that he was impervious to her mask. Her voice shook, and she closed her eyes and gripped the air with one fist as though that would make the sound obey her, too. "You have _no idea _what it's like for honest wizards to see you living in that Manor of yours, with the vaults that you couldn't spend if you lived to be two hundred, doing nothing that you don't want to."

Draco snorted. "I know exactly what sort of envy I would feel. And I know that most of your clients would trade their lots for mine in an instant. Don't pretend that we're of two different species, hardworking and lazy, or honest and criminal." He paused, then added delicately, "And at the time, the owner of the Malfoy properties and ability to be idle was my father. It makes no sense for you to be prejudiced against me, the heir."

"I knew that if someone didn't put you in prison, too, you would simply take over the properties and vaults and continue the Malfoy tradition of uselessness." Marks gave him a tight smile. "I thought I would cut the evil growth off at the root. You had no children that I'd been able to discover, and that meant someone else, someone more deserving, would take them-"

She broke off, because Draco was laughing soundlessly, making no effort to conceal it, his jaws parted and soft, soundless wheezes escaping. "What are you doing?" she demanded. "If you treat my words with so little seriousness-"

"The Ministry would hardly have redistributed those Galleons once they had hold of them," Draco explained, shaking his head in pity. "They would have taken over the properties, too, and probably made them into Auror training barracks or something equally useful. Why would you imagine that a petty triumph against me would turn to real gain for you or all those 'honest' wizards you represent? You can't be that naive, after watching what happened to the property of the Death Eaters who _were _convicted."

Marks shook her head. "How do you know that revenge wasn't enough for me?" she asked, but her voice lacked the undertone of fury and righteousness that Draco was listening for.

"Because you would have made that clear if that was true," Draco said simply. "And you didn't. Therefore, it wasn't."

Marks shut her eyes. "Explain to me why I shouldn't refuse your donation, then," she said, with a dullness that wanted to be triumph and wasn't anywhere close. "You've come in here, made fun of me, proven that you can't understand the people with whom I work, proven that you don't understand _work _itself...why would I want your money?"

"Because it's a way of getting that revenge in miniature," Draco said calmly. "I give you permission to publicize what I'm doing today in any way that will benefit your organization."

Marks opened her eyes and stared at him. "What? Why?"

"The bargain," Draco said, "is that you and I have nothing more to do with each other. You don't think that you have some sort of power over me that can guilt me into donating again. You don't try and spread rumors. You insist that you don't know why I made the donation, or else you make up one reason and stick with that; I don't know, that would be based on your publicity. You don't come near me again. And I'll repay the favor."

Marks shook her head. "But _why_? If you feel no guilt, then you have no reason to come near me again, no reason to do this in the first place."

Draco stood and looked down on her. She colored and started to rise, then changed her mind and sat down again.

"Call it," Draco said softly, "the price of a clean conscience. Mine, not yours. I don't want to hear your words about what I am and what I do with my money again, because all you've proven is that you don't understand different kinds of work." He bent towards her and lowered his voice. "And I want to make sure that I never need to hear them again. Don't send me begging letters by owl, either, the way that some have appeared on my desk. Understood?"

"You," said Marks, and then no more words. She bent her head. One hand scratched out in a way that made Draco feel sorry for the wood of her desk, then fell back to her side again.

"I'm so glad that we had this talk," Draco said dryly, and turned away, pausing only to drop a bag of Galleons on the desk as he went.

Outside, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, filling his lungs with the thick goodness of air somewhere people didn't hate him. Then he began walking. He waited until he had reached the Apparition point he'd used to come here and was sure that no one was watching him from the building.

Then he permitted himself a single shark's grin, so wide that it would have stirred even the dim-witted Marks to suspicion, and swung a fist at the air.

That had been some of his best acting ever, especially at the end. Marks would be questioning her judgment now, wondering if he was less idle than she had thought, if he was human with feelings to be hurt. And Draco had guarded against her offering testimony to someone who wanted to prosecute him, unless she wanted to forfeit both the money and her credibility in private bargaining.

He was _impressive._

Swaggering just a bit, Draco Apparated to his next appointment.

* * *

"Hullo."

Daphne had to admit that it was amusing to see the calm, collected girl she remembered from school, who had grown into a woman as calm and collected, leap into the air and do a tiny two-step while uttering a shriek. She came down facing Daphne, with her wand drawn. Daphne, who sat on the windowsill of her private office, lifted her hands to show that she had no wand of her own.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione Granger-Weasley had quieted enough to ask that. She didn't ask who Daphne was. Interesting. That probably meant she knew that she wouldn't get the right name. She took a step closer, eyes flickering to the door. Daphne took away the mental point she'd awarded her. She'd just come through the door herself; she ought to know that there was nothing wrong with the panel or the lock. "What do you want?"

"Those are the same question," Daphne observed peacefully, always anxious to help. "You could ask who I was, but that wouldn't get you much further, seeing as I have no intention of telling you. So I'll tell you that I'm here to warn you to look to your legislation."

Granger-Weasley dropped her wand at once, her eyes sharpening. This was obviously a kind of battle she understood, Daphne decided, or thought she did. "Threats won't work," she said quietly. "Everything happening in this office is heard."

"Oh, the recording spells?" Daphne smiled. "They were nested. Clever. They'll come alive again about twenty minutes after I exit the office. A perfect time for any private conversations you want to have. Other than this one, I mean. The legislation you've got passed concerning house-elves. It passed too easily, don't you think? Look for a resurgence of your political opposition soon." There. That ought to be enough. Draco had asked Daphne to warn Potter's friend that one of the victories he'd won for her would start to falter soon, and Daphne had agreed because she thought it'd be amusing. But she hadn't said she would explain the contract or any of the rest of it. She stood to leave.

"Who are you?" Granger-Weasley demanded, thus proving that she didn't listen to advice.

Daphne nodded at her. "A friend. Farewell." Granger-Weasley stepped forwards with her wand still lifted, and Daphne sighed. "The trouble with most people is that they don't _learn_," she complained, and flicked her hand sharply downwards. Granger-Weasley's eyes followed the motion, of course, and she cried out as mist from the minor amulet Daphne had carried flooded the office.

Under cover of the mist, Daphne exited the same way she had come, through the enchanted window. She carried an adapted Portkey that would briefly make it into a real window, a door to another place, and thus not trigger either the Ministry's wards on the doors or the wards that alerted the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to unauthorized Portkeys.

That did mean that she came out twenty feet above the ground on the side of a Muggle building, but Daphne caught herself with an easy hold on the rope she'd left there, swung, and went about her business.


	20. Judgment Day

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Judgment Day_

Harry leaned back against the wall of his office, during a moment when Ron had run out to the loo, and closed his eyes. The deception was working. More and more people were picking up on the fact that something had happened between him and Sandborn, if not what. Whispers followed Harry when he moved through the corridors, and the Minister's name was prominent in them. Now and then Harry saw someone staring at him, and while they looked away, they stayed looking long enough for him to identify the emotion in their eyes as pity. They felt sorry for him, supposedly the pawn of Sandborn, the noble Auror oppressed by the politics-playing Minister.

Was it just, what he was doing to Sandborn? Perhaps not entirely. On the other hand, Harry thought, Sandborn was never going to let him go willingly. If Harry wanted to have a life and freedom beyond the limits of the contract, then he would need to be willing to punish Sandborn.

And he wanted them. A lot.

He heard the door open as Ron returned, and took a moment to make sure his second soul was in position when he opened his eyes. Yet he still ended up blinking, wrongfooted, when he realized that it was Hermione instead of Ron who'd entered the office. She faced him, heart in eyes, trembling fists locked at her sides.

Harry licked his lips and tried not to feel that he was staring at a wall that was about to fall on his head. "Hermione? What's the matter?"

"I know," she said, and then broke off, choking. She turned her head away. Harry watched her, pulling out the chair behind his desk, but she didn't sit down. In fact, she turned and paced to the other side of the office, as though she was reconsidering her decision to come here.

"Hermione?" Harry repeated quietly. He wanted to say something, he wanted to tell her that it was all right, he wanted to reassure her. But he couldn't if she wouldn't tell him what the problem was.

"I should have known," Hermione said dully. "I knew the kind of people standing against me. They would _never _have freed house-elves on their own. Not without some kind of outside force to convince them to lay down their opposition. But I was so happy when the laws started passing that I just didn't _care._"

Harry knew, then, too.

His heartbeat filled his ears with dim thunder. He wanted to sway, but the chair was right there, and he held himself upright with an effort. He swallowed several times, then managed to meet Hermione's eyes and said, "So you know. About the contract."

"What?"

She was staring at him now, her tears suspended, her one clenched fist held still as though someone had grabbed her arm. And Harry realized then that she didn't know. Not everything. Not all of it. She had found out that he'd interfered on her behalf to get the laws she'd been so proud of passed, but she didn't know about the contract, or that other things, perhaps, were connected to it.

That was it. That was the moment when Harry could have pulled back and lied again, or he could have said that the contract was only for a single concession, to get the legislation passed, and that everything else they'd done since then, everything else _he'd _done, had been genuine.

His back pressed to the wall, Harry thought of Malfoy, for some reason, and his dangerous, stupid honesty. He didn't have grand passionate love affairs, he was only in things for a bit of fun, but he told the truth, and he had given Harry the chance to walk away from him if that wasn't what he wanted.

Harry couldn't have honesty that was less than that.

"The contract," he said, and sealed his fate, sitting down on the desk. It might be an admission of weakness, but he really didn't think his legs could hold him right now. "I-a long time ago I agreed to do certain things for Sandborn, political things like appearing at public functions and making speeches and so on, if he would agree to do certain things for me. I used it first to get the Death Eater children freed. Then I used it to get your laws passed, and get George out of trouble once, and other things. I don't know if I can remember all of them now. But in return, I did things like agreeing to date Callia and be an Auror and-"

"That can't be true."

Harry blinked. He hadn't expected denial. More like a punch in the face. "Why not?"

"B-because. It can't." Hermione faltered, took a step towards him, took a step back, and then seemed to find her ground after all and gallop forwards. "Because you're not that good a liar. We would have known something was off. You persuaded people, right? Because that's what you do? But you didn't do _everything. _We thought it was strange that you wanted to marry Callia, but-"

"No," Harry said softly. "I could get my hands on a copy of the contract, if that would convince you." Malfoy had mentioned that he'd had one stolen. "I made the decision, came up with the agreement. Some of the things Sandborn wanted me to do were repugnant, but I agreed to them because there were other things I wanted more."

Hermione shivered. "Harry. No. You couldn't have hidden that from us. You can't act that well."

"I was more worried about what you would say if you found out that I was about the effort involved in acting," Harry said quietly. "Believe me, you learn pretty quickly how to lie when faced with a challenge like that."

Hermione put one hand to her mouth. The tears were spilling down her cheeks now. Harry held himself rigidly back. He'd have liked to go to her, put his arms around her and comfort her, but she looked as though that was pretty much the last thing she'd want.

"Everything was a lie about these last few years?" she whispered. "Everything?"

Harry opened his mouth, tempted to say that the affection he bore them never had been-

And then he thought about his second soul, and how it was different from his third, which he had felt he couldn't share with anyone, and how his friendships had seemed nothing more than the dim reflections of Malfoy's. Which bothered him, because how could _Slytherins _have more profound and meaningful relationships than Gryffindors did?

He sighed. "Yeah," he said. "I told myself that I lied to you out of love of you, but you can judge how sincere that love is for yourself, when I never actually told you the truth."

Hermione closed her eyes. Her hand was trembling as she locked it around her stomach and bent over as though this information had given her a bad case of food poisoning. She sobbed once, and then bit her lip viciously and silenced it. Harry waited, his heart and his blood beating away in his head.

"I can't believe it," she whispered. "Do you know-I was so _proud _of myself for passing that legislation that convinced the Wizengamot? I actually thought that it was _great _for someone so young to achieve that. And now I know it was only you. I'll have to distrust everything that followed that. How many people were only convinced because of you? How many people were impressed with me for something that wasn't _mine_?"

Harry bowed his head. He had known she would feel like this, but there was a difference between knowing it and seeing it. "I know," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't enough." Hermione was focused on him, and he could only take one glimpse of what was in her face before it made him look down again. "You have no _idea _-you don't know what it's like to think you're good at something and then have it snatched away-you don't _know_-"

Harry just nodded or shook his head as seemed appropriate, and let it rain down on him. He had nothing to contradict her with, nothing to say. It was as bad as he'd always thought it would be, but it was worse for her than for him.

"Mate?"

And that was Ron, coming back, and looking from the crying Hermione to him with the hurt, puzzled expression of someone who had been left out of a row between his two best friends. He was carrying a cuppa, which explained what had taken him so long. He put it down on Harry's desk and edged around Hermione to cup her cheeks in his hands, shooting a look over his shoulder at Harry.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, _do _tell him," Hermione said at once, before Harry could figure out if she would want him to lie, eyes wide and empty of everything except pain. "I can't wait to see what you did for _him_."

"What's she talking about?" Ron's gaze darted back and forth, his forehead bending down until Harry thought his eyebrows would meet in the middle. "Harry?"

Harry took a deep breath. "I sold myself to Sandborn with a contract that meant he had the right to ask things of me-like speaking for the Ministry, speaking to the Wizengamot, who I dated and who I married-as long as he did things for me in return. He got legislation passed for Hermione and charges dropped against George and you into the Auror program."

Ron closed his eyes, and opened them. Harry had half-hoped that Ron would think he was lying _now _instead of all the years prior to this, but something, maybe Hermione's tears, had convinced him it was true. "I wouldn't have got into the program on my own?" he asked in a leaden voice.

Harry shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe. But maybe not. This way, I made sure they would take you."

Ron clenched his hand. His neck was flushed red, but, for some reason, not the rest of his face. The freckles stood out like drops of spaghetti sauce, still visible. "You son of a _bitch_," he said. There might have been a bit of awe in his voice. "You _bastard._"

"Yeah," Harry said. "I'm sorry."

Ron wheeled around and came for him with a swinging punch that could easily have broken Harry's teeth if he allowed it to connect. Harry ducked, not trying to hurt Ron but making sure that Ron couldn't corner him against the desk or the wall, and blocking the blows that tried to land on his face. He could take a few strikes to the body and to the stomach. He hoped Ron wouldn't go for his wand.

Or Hermione, for that matter.

He didn't think he would have got through it-he thought he would have stood still and allowed Ron to take the shots at him, unimpeded-if it hadn't been for his three souls. He was just too used to standing back and allowing things that hurt to slide off him, because the alternative was living in pain all the time. So he felt he deserved this, but not too much, not too long. Blows to the face were hard for him to heal without allowing someone else to do it, and he couldn't count on that kind of help with all his friends falling away from him. And he didn't want to let on to Sandborn that he'd had this kind of argument with Ron and Hermione.

When Ron's punches were starting to slow, Harry stood back and looked him in the face. He knew their friendship was either dying or mortally wounded from the look that Ron gave him. He wanted to weep, to scream, to fall over and beg forgiveness, but he didn't think Ron or Hermione should have to offer it if they didn't want to. And he just couldn't _afford _to weep or scream right now.

"How long?" Ron asked him, in a voice that stretched, taut and hoarse, until it snapped.

"Since the war," Harry answered. He would give them all the answers they wanted. Honesty was the only thing he had to offer right now.

Ron closed his eyes, apparently not expecting that. Hermione touched his shoulder and stepped past him, staring at Harry as if she expected him to explode in front of her eyes. "Why did you do it?"

"Because I thought it was the only way I could get everything I wanted, for you and everybody else," Harry said quietly. "The first bargain I ever made was to get the Slytherins who were being tried just for being the children of Death Eaters off the hook. In return, I helped Sandborn become Minister. And did-other things."

Hermione shook her head. Harry wasn't sure what emotion was on her face now, helpless wonder or hurt or anger. He told himself that it didn't matter. He hadn't known the truth about his friends for quite a while, although he'd been lying in a far more direct way. He hadn't wanted to know.

This was all he wanted, or needed, or deserved, or would get.

"Did you ever sleep with him?" Hermione demanded in a whisper.

Harry blinked. "Who? Sandborn? No, I didn't. He wasn't interested, and he never asked it of me. But I did agree to date and marry Callia when he asked me to, in return for large concessions that limited his power."

Ron said, "Wait a minute. Wait a _minute_." He did something Harry thought wanted to be a raised fist, but his shaking hand fell back to his side again, and Harry really couldn't blame him. "You-you got my father that new job he was offered, didn't you? I remember that a few people mentioned seeing you slip off with Sandborn one night a few weeks ago."

Harry saw no point in denying it when Ron already seemed to know all about it, so he just nodded silently.

Ron closed his eyes. "He was so proud of that, you know," he whispered. "And now I have to tell him that it was all due to _you_."

Hermione fixed Harry with a bleak, bewildered gaze. "Harry, why in the world did you do it?" she whispered. "You ought to have known-you ought to have known that we wouldn't have wanted this, that you didn't _have _to do this to be our friend and someone we love."

"I know," Harry said quietly. "A lot more of it had to do with the fear I saw in the Wizengamot's eyes, and the fact that there were some things I really wanted to accomplish that I _couldn't, _like keeping Narcissa Malfoy unharmed and free. She only saved my bloody _life, _and they didn't care. All this power that everyone kept telling me I had was only an illusion, if it couldn't save her. That was when I decided that I would have some real power, and I sold myself because it was the only thing I had."

He'd never expected that story to impress them, but he hadn't thought it would make them flinch, either. Hermione's eyes boiled over with tears again, and she bowed her head. Ron whispered, "We would never-we would never ask that of you. _Never. _You're sick for thinking of it."

"I know," Harry said. "It was for me. Not you."

Something finally changed in the atmosphere between them, maybe because of the tone of voice he used to say that. Ron's face rippled and twisted, and he flashed Harry a sharp sneer. "Right. Get out."

Harry nodded and walked around his desk to get his things. But Ron banged his hand on the desk, his arm blocking Harry's way. "I'll send you all the things you have in here," he said. "But I don't want to be your partner anymore, I don't want to stand in the same room and breathe the same air as you. Get _out_."

Harry had expected that, too.

Which didn't make it hurt less.

He was losing control of the pain, he thought, his three souls blending into one, his body beginning to feel randomly weak and dizzy. Well, he'd been dismissed. He nodded to Ron and Hermione one more time, said, "I'm sorry. I hope I didn't hurt you too badly for you to recover from," and then turned and walked out.

The few Aurors in the corridor paused and stared at him. Harry had some idea of what his face looked like, simply from seeing it reflected in their expressions.

He straightened his shoulders and went on his way amid a spreading pool of gossip. He held on until he was in his house and could shut his door behind him and raise his very strongest wards.

Then he bowed his head, and let go.

Despite Callia's intrusion the other night, despite the time the Slytherins had sat on his couch and talked strategy, this was still _his _place, the one where he could come when his second soul had burned itself out and his first soul no longer sustained him and he needed privacy. And he used it, sitting against the door and bowing his head until the storm blew through him, and over, and left him weak and shaky.

He did think, once, about seeking Malfoy out the way he had after the confrontation with Callia the other night. He would at least have to write to the bastard to make sure that whatever informant had alerted Hermione to the existence of the contract wasn't going to slip out and tell Sandborn they knew.

But Malfoy would say something bracing and mocking about what he felt right now, and that wasn't what Harry needed. He curled up with his forehead resting on his knees and sat there until he fell asleep.

* * *

"Malfoy."

"This is an unexpected surprise, Granger," Draco said, and smiled at the face hovering in the flames, while inwardly crowing. Obviously, Daphne had not been as careful as she thought she'd been in delivering her warning, and Granger had been impelled to go on an investigation to see what she meant. That would be one Draco could hold over Daphne for the rest of their lives. "I won't say pleasure, since your countenance doesn't look made to give me pleasure in any way." He paused, then added, "That was your cue to say something cutting."

"I hope you're happy."

Draco paused, studying in more detail the marks of tears on her face, her clenched fists, her red cheeks and the panting way she spoke. "Ah," he said. "So you found out about the contract and what Potter did for you."

"I found out about Harry's _arrogance, _yes," Granger snapped. "And I found out that you're responsible for it."

Draco smiled and adjusted himself to a more comfortable position in front of the fire. "He told you who first started urging him to break free, then?" That was more gracious than he had thought Potter would be. If he tried to take all the responsibility for his friends' happiness on himself, it seemed only logical that he would try to do it with their newfound happiness to come, as well.

Granger sneered. "He only confessed because we cornered him and he had no choice. No, I'm talking about the way that he said he sacrificed himself to get you Death Eaters off the hook."

"We didn't ask for that any more than you did," Draco said. "The difference is that we found out about the debt and we've been working to settle it. That's the reason my associate came and gave you that warning. We thought that you'd want to know your political opposition might rise again." He paused and gave Granger a severe look. "There was no reason for you to do as much _research _as you did in response."

Granger only gaped at him. Draco cocked his head again, and finally found the meaning of that look in searching his own memory of what Potter had said and done in the past. He sighed. "He didn't tell you about that, did he?" he asked. "He didn't tell you that we found out about the contract, and it was _that _which flushed him into the open. He wanted all your anger at him to fall on him alone, or he thought that he would betray us by talking about it, or something." Draco sighed again, feeling the heavy burden settle on him. _Potter, Potter, what am I going to do with you? _"Even when he has to bare his soul, he does it by protecting someone else."

"You're an idiot, Malfoy," Granger whispered. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"No, on this score I'm pretty bloody sure that I'm right," Draco said dryly. "I think Potter would have gone on marching happily to his little self-sacrificial drum if I hadn't witnessed him signing the contract with Sandborn one evening. He had to tell me what was going on then. His first mistake was in thinking that I'd be content to leave it there, instead of working to repay the debt."

"We don't _owe _him anything."

"No, I don't think you do," Draco assured her, anxious to be of service. "He did what he did for you multiple times, and for different reasons. But the business between us was going to be just a chain hanging around our necks if we didn't shed it. And it's not as if I had to repay it alone. He saved most of my friends, too. We began to pay it back, and while the debt isn't even yet, it's getting close. It'll be repaid when Potter's free and we've figured out a way to keep the gains that he made for us under the contract, as well."

"What?" Granger drew herself up. "We don't _want _to keep what we gained under the contract, Malfoy! Jobs that Harry sold himself for, legislation that only passed because he bribed the Wizengamot, advances that Sandborn fought for...I think that I'd rather die."

"Another difference between Slytherins and Gryffindors," Draco said. He kept from rolling his eyes with a great effort, because then Granger would continue with her tirade for half an hour and he would lose valuable time. It was obvious what he had to do now, though he doubted Granger would agree. "You can do what you like-although I'll warn you, if you try to publicize the contract now, you'll regret it." Daphne hadn't broken into Granger's office to steal something, but to leave something behind. "But we _like _our freedom and our money and our lives, thank you. We'll be fighting to keep them."

"We're not like you," Granger whispered.

"Yes," Draco said. "Exactly." He was pleased that at least one reasonable Gryffindor-beside Potter-seemed to exist.

"We don't respond well to threats," Granger continued.

_Oh. So that's what she meant. Well, I reckon that she probably wouldn't respond well to reason, either. _Draco sighed. "Yes, but you might consider who else could be harmed if you try to harm us, or reveal the news of the contract too soon. Potter. Your friends. Your family."

Granger's face went very pale, and Draco knew she was going to say something pathetic and stereotypical. He waved his hand and shut the Floo connection. Then he tossed in a puff of powder and said, "Potter's residence."

No connection opened. Potter had raised his wards, and by the dark blankness of the fireplace staring at him, he had no intention of lowering them again.

Draco snorted and settled down. He knew several tricks to make keeping a Floo connection closed more annoying than opening it, and he intended to use them all if he needed to. No use in what had happened and what they'd done so far if they let Potter brood himself to death.


	21. A Confrontational Hour

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-One-A Confrontational Hour_

Harry woke to a series of incredibly distracting sharp pings, the kind that made him think of nails springing out of joints. He stood up, drawing his wand and looking around the room.

He first noticed that he was still in his house and moving with the slowness of sleep. That wouldn't do, not if an enemy was attacking the wards. He shook himself sharply and moved one hand across his forehead, a gesture that had the advantage of pushing his fringe out of his eyes and forcing him to clear his thoughts at the same time, he'd done it so often right before battle.

Then he noticed that the pings were coming from the fireplace he usually opened to admit callers. He stared. The iron gratings on either side were shaking back and forth, pinging all the time as though someone was bouncing more iron off them. Harry took a cautious step closer, his wand still leveled.

The pings stopped. Harry half-wondered if he'd imagined it, but no, at one point a flashing blue spark had leapt from the iron. Sort of hard to imagine.

Unless he was having delusions now, or hallucinations, from the sheer stress of what had happened with his friends.

Harry swallowed and turned away from the fireplace. He'd managed to forget that for a while in the oblivion of sleep. Part of him was tempted to go straight to bed and continue the forgetting, but he knew that wouldn't solve any problems in the long run. He had to plan a strategy. He had to decide how to tell Sandborn about his new distance from Ron, especially, without making it sound suspicious. He-

The fireplace twinged and began to play a bright, cheery tune that sounded suspiciously like the Muggle lullaby Harry could dimly remember hearing from one of Dudley's music boxes. It had been his most hated song by the time that Dudley finally got bored of that toy and broke it.

Someone was fucking with him now. Harry felt his lips draw back in a snarl. It would be good to let the anger out on some reporter who had forced his way through the wards, or one of the other Aurors who wanted to offer "condolences" or pry into the weird distance between Harry and Sandborn for gossip.

But no, anger wouldn't work either, not when he was supposed to be in fear of Sandborn and no one could know the truth about the breach with his friends. Harry closed his eyes in simple exhaustion. He wanted to sleep, and do nothing else, until he woke up at the end of the world.

The tune caught his attention again. Harry frowned and waved his wand. He knew what it must be. Rather than someone guessing that he hated that music, they were reaching through his wards with a spell that was technically allowed because it did no harm. It simply reflected one of his more annoying memories back to him. It was easy enough to stop-

Except that the requisite gesture and wand movement failed to stop it. Harry stared with narrowed eyes. Yes, someone was fucking with him. And if it was Ron, who knew about the loophole in his wards, then Harry was really going to yell at him. He'd thought Ron was above this kind of petty vengeance.

Luckily, his wand worked the way it was supposed to when he tried to trace the reaching spell to the wards it was affecting. It had woven its way through the protective spells over the wards on the fireplace. Someone _was_ trying to make him open his Floo connection, which Harry reckoned was better than trying to beat down his door.

"_Finite_," he said decisively, when he'd found the hole. He couldn't and didn't want to stop harmless spells from coming through the wards in general-that was a standard safety precaution, since there had been countless cases of wounded wizards dying behind wards that were too sturdy-but he would patch this one.

The tune didn't stop. By now, Harry's teeth were grinding and he felt as though he was back with the Dursleys, body braced for the way that Dudley would thunder down the stairs and send dust drifting over him in the cupboard.

He hated to give in to what the caller wanted by opening his Floo connection. But it _would _feel good to yell at someone right now, and surely whoever was doing this knew yelling was a possibility.

He could indulge his third soul for a fleeting second, Harry assured himself as he began to lower the protections. In fact, it would probably feel so embarrassing that he would go back to the shelter of his first and second souls in a minute.

"_What_?" he snarled as the wards fell.

* * *

Draco stared in silent admiration. He hadn't known he had that particular kink before, that catch of the breath and tightening in his groin that came from watching Harry Potter's eyes blaze with power and magic.

Potter's eyes were greener like this. He was leaning forwards, all the muscles in his body tense, as if ready to launch himself at someone's throat. One could see that he had a _shape _under those Auror robes, Draco thought. He found himself eying them meditatively. To have Potter wear them in the bedroom sometimes was tempting.

"Oh, it's _you_," Potter said, noticing Draco. He sounded...disappointed? Perhaps he'd been wanting someone he could blame for the debacle that happened today, Draco thought, though in that case he should have waited until he could see Daphne. Potter stepped back, shifting uneasily, casting a glance over his shoulder as though he had company, though Draco was well-aware that Potter had no company in his pathetic little house. "I was going to write you a letter about the informant who let slip enough truth for Hermione to investigate it. I assume you know what's happened by now?"

"Hm, yes," Draco said. "Granger contacted me." He watched the taut lines of Potter's body and decided there were compensations for the abrupt vanishing of his anger. He could use his weight, Draco was certain, to bring down fleeing suspects. Draco thought of other ways he might use it, and certain games they might play, and his mouth filled with water.

"Then you'll know her side of what happened." Potter's voice was firming and dulling again, pushing away all the fire. Draco rolled his eyes. Didn't he realize that wasn't going to _work, _now that his secret was out with more people than just Draco? He had no reason to suppress and hold himself back in private anymore, only when he was with Sandborn or someone who might report to Sandborn. He could be angry all he liked.

All _he likes._

"I want to hear yours," Draco said. "And I want to make sure that you don't brood yourself to death."

Potter looked at him with those eyes that somehow seemed ashy despite their color, cocking his head. "What do you mean? You can't actually die of brooding, Malfoy. Only if you commit suicide because of depression." He sounded faintly interested, as though this was an academic subject entirely unconnected with him.

"Stop it, you stupid bastard."

That insult made a flickering flame stir to life briefly, but Potter looked down and shrugged it away. Draco had never known how irritating a shrug could be. "Yeah, I know. It doesn't have anything to do with our goals. So. Who told Hermione, and can you keep them quiet?"

"You don't get to do this," Draco said. "You don't get to pretend that what happened between us didn't happen just because you're upset about your friends." He found that he was the one leaning forwards this time, as though Potter was more than just an image in the fire and Draco could take him by the shoulders and shake him. "You ought to be spitting angry about what happened, or happy that they finally _know _and that takes the burden of telling them at some later time off your shoulders. Why aren't you?"

"Stop it, Malfoy."

His retort was weak in the extreme. Draco smiled and pressed harder. "Anger and happiness are normal human reactions. Does everyone get to experience them except you? Do you think you don't deserve them? I never saw anyone who stews along in the middle of self-pity more than you. I think you made the contract with Sandborn out of self-pity after all. Ooh, noooo, the Wizengamot is _afraid _of me, however will I cope?"

Potter just nodded, his head bowed, and Draco realized abruptly that that was the wrong tactic. That was the way Potter _wanted _to think of himself just now, after his confrontation with his self-righteous friends. Weak and broken-down and worse than anyone knew. Draco shifted physically and mentally and launched himself again.

"Or maybe you think you're better than that," he whispered tauntingly. "Oh, the other Aurors and the suspects and the sneaky Slytherins can let their emotions out, but not Harry Potter. The Hero. The Bloody Genius. The Auror everyone looks up to. The Ministry speaker who smiles tolerantly when someone accuses him of betraying his pre-war ideals for politics. The one who nods at Sandborn's shoulder as if someone has his hand up his arse playing puppet. The one-"

"I told you to _stop it._"

Oh, Potter was dripping fire now, literally, with red-gold sparks leaking from his wand and his eyes back to the blaze that Draco wanted to see. Draco smiled at him, and it was all teeth. He knew why that had worked. That was the image Potter had created and projected because of the contract, the one he hated. And it was one that, if Draco understood him correctly, he had striven hard to keep from projecting in his own home, his private place. Well, Draco would force him to face it and keep forcing him if that was what he needed.

"Why should I?" Draco leaned back as if reclining on a comfortable couch-good thing he was flexible, and that Potter would get to experience the outer limit of that flexibility-and leered. "You can't get to me. And I can tell you the truth. Out of all the people in your life, only I can do that. Your friends are too blinded by their anger, my friends aren't as invested in you, and you're surrounded by people who don't care what you really feel, as long as you give them what they want. I'm the only one who can tell you that you're being a prick, that you believe your own press, that your image matters more to you than other people do-"

Potter snarled like a wild bear this time, and then snatched a pinch of Floo powder up and cast it in the fire. A second later, he was in Draco's drawing room, wand out as though he intended to start cursing.

"_Expelliarmus_," Draco said idly, and Potter's wand soared away from his hand. That was good. Draco didn't want this to become a battle of curses and hexes, one that Potter would undeniably win. He wanted to keep it and make it physical, and he leaned further back and threw Potter a mocking smile. "Your signature spell, I understand," he said.

Potter _leaped _at him, and he was magnificent like this, and Draco was going to remember it from now on and treasure the memory.

Right after he and Potter fucked the rage into the ground.

Potter first tried to punch him in the jaw, a predictable beginning, but Draco wrapped his legs around Potter's hips and pulled, and they spilled to the floor together. Draco ducked another punch that would have powdered his nose and bit Potter on the ear. Potter jerked to startled attention, and Draco bit his throat.

"Stop it, Malfoy," Potter said for at least the third time, although Draco could feel him stirring to life. "We can't solve all our problems with sex." He started to rise.

Draco cupped his arse and yanked up with one thigh between Potter's legs, forcing Potter to drop back if he didn't want to be kneed in the groin. Then Draco settled into a steady rubbing motion, and Potter gasped, the fire in his eyes fogging with confusion as they fluttered shut.

Draco hummed contentedly as he leaned forwards to kiss Potter. He was much more entertaining, and smarter, when he concentrated on sex. That was something he hadn't managed to fuck up with the contract, to Draco's knowledge. After all, Pansy had got him away from Callia before he had actually married the bitch.

_I'll have to buy something nice for Pansy._

"No, I mean it," Potter said, and he had more will than Draco would have given him credit for. He sat up again, and managed to _ignore _the way his heavy cock was rubbing against Draco's skin. Draco smiled at him, and Potter blinked, but didn't gape. He shook his head and pushed Draco away. "These are not-I can't do this." He paced to the other side of the room.

Draco sat up on the carpet, resting one elbow on a knee as he examined Potter. The man's arse was as nice to look at as his front, if not as expressive, and Potter was comfortably far from the fireplace that he would have to use to flee. "Why not? You seemed happy enough to do it last time."

Potter spun around to face him last time, and no, Draco had been wrong, those green eyes and his flushed face were _much _nicer to look at. "You're insane," he snapped. "That's not-this time, you've been _taunting _me."

"I was last time, too," Draco said. "Or at least telling you the truth in a way that wouldn't qualify as complimenting."

Potter shook his head, shut his eyes, and, by the sound of it, began counting under his breath backwards from ten. Draco stood and sauntered closer, glad that he had some practice in moving quietly.

"Three," Potter said, and Draco slid a knee carefully between his legs without touching the skin.

"Two," Potter said, and Draco arranged his arms around the idiot's shoulders.

"One," Potter said, and opened his eyes, ready to be all solemn and serious and contract-y, at which point Draco kissed him.

Potter gasped and gaped this time, and Draco took advantage of the chance to sweep his tongue into Potter's mouth and lap at the corners of his lips. Potter sighed and moaned, and Draco hummed back, delighted to discover that for once they were in agreement. Potter's hand came up and clutched uncertainly at his hair, and Draco purred back, approving, driving his own hands deeper. Potter's hair was softer than it had looked from a distance, where it mostly resembled a bristle-brush.

And once again he staggered away. Draco lifted an eyebrow and said, "Anyone might think that you don't _want _to sleep with me."

"I can't," Potter said, his eyes opening and shutting as though someone else had control of them. "This is important."

"And sex isn't?" Draco gave him a smile that he knew was pure temptation, and waited. He thought he had done enough chasing.

* * *

Harry was trying to recall the utter despair over the loss of his friends that had plagued him before coming here, and the anger he'd felt at Malfoy just a moment ago. Those emotions had been _important, _damn it. Bloody all-consuming, enough to make him storm through the Floo into Malfoy Manor like he owned the place. They weren't supposed to wither and disappear like a rose petal crumpling up in a harsh wind. He didn't know-they weren't supposed to do that. He wasn't supposed to be here.

But somehow they had, and he was, and Malfoy was watching him with a bright, inquiring smile to see what Harry would do next.

_He was saying that I was a hero for the sake of having people say nice things about me, and that I believed those nice things._

Harry bared his teeth, the anger coming back full-force. He just had to look away from Malfoy's bitten lips while he spoke, so that he could forget that _he _was the one who had bitten them up. "I'm not like that," he said.

"Like what?" Malfoy prowled a step forwards, then stopped and raised his hands innocently when Harry glared at him. "Someone who enjoys sex? Because you can be that way without damaging your precious heroic reputation."

"You don't get it," Harry said, spacing the words slowly so that he wouldn't be tempted to just call his wand back and start hurling curses the moment he reached the end of the sentence. "That reputation is gone now. Ron and Hermione know that it's a lie, a hollow shell, and they're going to tell all my other friends unless they leave it up to me to tell them." He wasn't sure which decision he would prefer at the moment. "When I break from Sandborn, then the rest of the people in the Ministry who trusted me won't anymore. And from there, it'll get out to the press. There's no heroic reputation anymore."

"Then I don't understand your objection," Malfoy said, and looked honestly confused.

Malfoy was only _honest _about fucking, Harry reminded himself. "My objection is that you're wrong," he said harshly. "I never believed in my own press. I knew that it was a lie."

Malfoy nodded, looking enlightened now. "Then you have the chance to make a change," he said. "You can become the sort of person who fucks his emotions out, the way so many other people are, if you want to."

"But I don't want to be," Harry said.

"Why not?" Malfoy spread his hands. "You've made the point, quite eloquently, that none of the people you were desperately lying to are going to be yours to deceive anymore. And I would be more than happy to tumble into bed with you. Who's holding you back? Why is it so important _to _hold back?" He took another step closer.

Harry held out his hand to ward him off and closed his eyes.

Because, whether or not Malfoy had intended to ask it that way, it _was _a bloody good question.

He reached down into the middle of himself, into the third soul that he'd had to ignore everywhere but his own house for years, and by the time that he'd got back to his own house in the evenings, he mainly wanted to go to bed. He hadn't thought about things like this when his reputation and his dating life and most of his emotions were predetermined by the bargains he'd made.

Now he had a chance. Now the manacles were crumbling. Callia was gone. Even Ron and Hermione were gone.

That was a horrible echo of loss, but if they never came back, then Harry would have to learn who he was without them. Or who he wanted to be. Malfoy was right about one thing: Harry had the chance to change if he seized it. He could continue with some of his old ideas and ideals, but he couldn't be the same, because too many other things outside him had also changed.

"I think," he heard himself say, in a voice so calm and controlled that he started and opened his eyes, "that I want to be someone who _chooses _what he gets into."

"Understandable," Malfoy said. "Like what bed he gets into."

Harry turned his head and met a pair of eyes brighter than he had thought they would be when he'd so strongly refused a casual fuck. "Yeah," he said shortly. "I want to choose."

Malfoy stepped back and nodded. "Okay. Then you don't want to have sex with me again?"

Harry grimaced. This would be the part where everything got complicated. "I'd like to," he said. "But that's not the same thing as wanting everything else that comes with it, like your sense of humor and your tendency to remind me all the time that you were right and I was wrong."

Malfoy's smile was delighted and so slow that Harry mistook it for a frown when it was in the forming stages. "Why, Potter. Are you saying that you only want me for my body?"

Harry felt his face turn red. "_No_," he said. "That's disgusting."

"Then you're saying that I'm disgusting, because that's the way I generally engage with my lovers, but at the same time you still want to sleep with me." Malfoy appeared to ponder this for a few minutes before he shook his head. "You have _issues, _Potter."

"Surely I've never denied that," Harry said, but his voice was weak and he knew it. He turned his head away and leaned it against the wall for a minute, drawing in a heavy breath.

"I want to sleep with you," he said at last. Malfoy showed no impatience with his muddy thoughts, remaining silent behind him. "But it doesn't mean that I think it's the best thing right now."

"When, then?"

Harry rolled his eyes and turned to face him again. "I don't know. Why do you care? Why don't you go find someone else to fuck?"

"Because I like fucking you, too," Malfoy said. "Even if we haven't yet figured out what will feel better, my cock up your arse or yours up mine." He paused, then laughed. "You're pretty when you blush."

Harry muttered, "Sod off." A moment later, and he felt competent to say, "Okay. So right now, I have to concentrate on making sure that I get away from Sandborn with my life intact and enough-enough of whatever I need to make a new life."

"Are you thinking of quitting the Aurors, then?" Harry blinked at Malfoy, who responded with a shrug. "If your Weasley hates you now, I can't imagine that he'll want you to remain as his partner, and it might be a bit unsafe for you to continue working in the Ministry after your break with Sandborn."

"I can't do it right now," Harry said, while he struggled between the vision of some peace and quiet away from the Aurors and the disturbing fact that he had no idea what he would do with that peace and quiet. He'd had dreams, but they'd withered when he signed the contract, and this far away in time, he could no longer even remember what they were. "I have to convince Sandborn that I'm only afraid of him, not intent on fucking him over, for as long as possible."

"Then we'll tackle that first," Malfoy said. "And you can give the thought of sleeping with me more consideration later."

"Why would you help me if I'm not sleeping with you?" Harry asked suspiciously. "What you told me made it sound like you and your lovers only had sexual relationships, and nothing else."

Malfoy smiled at him. "Because the fire is back in your eyes," he said simply. "And because I appreciate honesty in return. If you won't sleep with me again, at least you're admitting it, not dancing around the issue because you don't want to hurt my feelings or because you think you need to give up everything for me. Which I admit I was worried about, considering what you gave up for your friends." He paused thoughtfully. "But mostly because of the fire."

Harry spent a few more minutes staring at him. But as far as he could tell, there was sincerity in Malfoy's eyes. He might be an _odd _ally, but Harry thought he would be an honest one.

"All right," he said. "Then help me work out the lies I'll tell Sandborn and the lies I should tell everyone else. Or does that conflict with your honesty?"

"Lying to enemies doesn't bother me, I told you." Malfoy nodded at him. "Besides, watching the way you watch my mouth is payment enough."

"Git," Harry said fervently, flushing again.

Malfoy shrugged and made his way back across the room to take his place on a low couch. "Come on. We need to make a list of everything Sandborn already knows, what he's likely to find out, and what you can bluff him on."

Harry hesitated, and then slowly joined him, telling himself as he went that it wasn't only, or even mainly, because of Malfoy's encouraging smile.


	22. The Heartbeat as a Measure of Time

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Two-The Heartbeat as a Measure of Time_

"Minister, I need to speak with you."

Harry had spent a long time discussing with Malfoy what his voice should sound like, not to mention practicing it. It had to be _just _right, a hollow shell of confidence over a tremulous undertone. He wanted Sandborn to think that he was working up his courage to fool people, but a careful listener would detect the hollowness and suspect his fear.

Sandborn prided himself on being a careful listener.

"Of course, Harry," Sandborn said, opening the door of his office himself rather than having a flunky do it. Harry started just slightly, and then put his hands behind his back as if to hide their trembling. He had deliberately timed his trip to the office because he had thought that Sandborn's secretary would be with him. Well, there were ways to recover from a mistake of that kind.

"I am always open to you," Sandborn continued, and his eyes fastened on Harry's face as if he could force him to believe that by how hard he stared.

Harry swept past him into the office, head bowed, forcing him to open the door wider. Then he turned and pinned the Minister with a sharp gaze. "I want to know what rumors you've heard about the row I had with Ron yesterday."

Sandborn gave a slow, delighted smile. Not because of the rumors, Harry knew, but because of the "trust" implied by Harry coming to him. "Not much," he said. "A few of the Aurors said that he had thrown you out of the office, but they didn't know why. And they didn't seem interested in speculating after I was through with them," he added in a casual, chill tone.

_Trying to imply that he would quash the rumors for me, and that I should be grateful. _Of course. Harry fixed a brittle smile on his face and bowed a little to Sandborn. "That's good," he said. "I want the rumors not to spread." It meant that they would only spread further and faster, of course, but thinking he had the power to make people stop talking about him and Harry had always been one of Sandborn's weaknesses. For him, "don't say that in front of the Minister" was functionally equivalent to "no one says that behind the Minister's back, either."

"What was the argument really about?" Sandborn leaned forwards, one hand reaching out yearningly. "You know that you can tell me."

Harry paused, and his eyes darted sideways. _Look as if you're weighing him up for a confidence, _Malfoy had said. _He has to trust you more than anyone or anything else, even his own common sense. _"I really can't have this go any further," he said stiffly.

"It will never leave this office." Sandborn's face smoothed down into something close to neutrality, as close as Harry thought he could come at the moment, while his eyes never left Harry's face, either. "I know that your secrets are often state secrets."

_Because you made them so. _Showing resentment like that would have made Sandborn question too much, though, and Harry had had many reasons down the years to strangle resentment before he killed any other emotion. "It's like this," he said. "It began when I first noticed that I was spending too much time with Hermione..."

And so he spun the tale, a sordid affair of falling in love with his best friend's wife. The nice thing about the story, as Malfoy had noted, was that it provided a solid explanation for breaking up with Callia as well as the row with Ron, at least as far as Sandborn was concerned.

The nasty thing about the story was everything else. But Harry would rather that people thought he was the kind of person who would become infatuated with one of his best friends, and flirt with her in front of his other best friend, her husband, than that they found out about the contract.

At least until he was at the point where he could break free, and leave Sandborn to stand or fall in the midst of his own flaming ruins.

By the time he finished, Sandborn was smiling at him with a touch of amusement that Harry knew he was displaying unconsciously, because at the moment, the last thing Sandborn wanted to show him was any emotion that might send Harry off in a huff. That was good, though. If Sandborn thought him the kind of man who fell prey to his lusts, even after all this time when he had seen that Harry was perfectly content to stay at Callia's side and look passionless, then he would underestimate him on everything else.

"Love," Sandborn sighed. "It finds us and trickles through even the cracks that we had thought we sealed."

Harry tried to look indignant, but he knew it was a losing battle, if not for the reason that Sandborn thought it was. He turned away and folded his arms instead.

"Harry, I'm sorry," Sandborn murmured, solicitous at once. Weirdly solicitous, Harry would have said once, but that was before he woke up-or before Malfoy woke him up-and realized that Sandborn really did crave his friendship for more than political reasons. "To have something like this happen to you is upsetting. Is there any way that you will be able to recover the friendship of Auror Weasley and his wife?"

"I don't know," Harry mumbled, staring at the ground. "I just have to avoid them for right now, and hope that it's something that comes right in time."

"Indeed, time can renew many things," Sandborn said, and stepped forwards, reaching out for Harry's shoulder. Harry saw the motion from the corner of his eye, and let his defensive instincts react the way they wanted to, making him spin to face the threat, his wand lifted.

Sandborn stopped, his lips creasing. Then he stepped back, shrugging stiffly as he lowered his hand. "I'm sorry, Harry."

"So am I." Harry let weariness roll into his voice as he lowered his head and rubbed it. "I-I don't want to act this way, Jared. But the fear isn't something I can master and make go away."

Sandborn nodded, and instantly his face was filled with sympathy again. That only proved that he didn't know Harry at all; he'd been watching for the better part of a decade as Harry faked his emotions, adjusted his smiles for the watching cameras and amiably shook the hands of people he knew had acted as political rivals against his friends. Or did Sandborn-

_Did he think it was all real? _

It made sense out of most of the disparate pieces of Sandborn's behavior that had been senseless so far, but it also meant that he was a much worse politician than Harry thought he was, less observant for one thing. He would have to rethink his regret at disrupting the political stability of the wizarding world by tearing himself loose, if that was the case. Sandborn's stability might only have endured because he had luck on his side.

_And me._

Huh. That put a new spin on things, and one that Harry found himself wanting to discuss with Malfoy. That was only natural, of course, since Malfoy had essentially taken over as his political adviser, but it made Harry want to shake his head all the same.

"I'll keep that in mind, Harry," Sandborn said quietly. "Why don't you leave now? Go and take some time to relax. I'll spread the official word that Auror Weasley can't work field cases until he has a new partner, which will involve keeping him buried in paperwork. And you're on a much-needed holiday."

"But it wasn't Ron's fault," Harry said, anxious that the story wouldn't make Sandborn punish his friend.

"I understand that," Sandborn said, though his crocodile's display of a smile said he didn't, not exactly. "Still, you deserve a holiday, and this is the best way to cover any mistakes that we may make. I don't think anyone will question it."

That, at least, was true. Harry ended up bowing his head in obedience and leaving, taking a moment outside the office for a few deep breaths until an Auror "just happened" to loiter into sight. Then he left at a near-run, pausing to flash a few glances over his shoulder, as though he was terrified of what would happen if Sandborn opened the door and called him back.

He was feeling quietly triumphant when he got home, a feeling undercut immediately by the owl waiting for him.

Ginny and Luna wanted to see him.

* * *

"You did," Draco said, and leaned back on the couch, eating a peach while he watched Daphne. It was a good way to taunt her, he thought, given that he could see a window over her shoulder in the Floo connection, filled with palm fronds. She was located somewhere tropical and luxurious, but it was Draco who had fresh fruit as well as the tactical advantage. Daphne looked properly vexed.

"I _didn't,_" she said. "I couldn't have been that careless." She folded her hands in her lap. She was wearing a bright red robe. Draco was tempted to tell her that it didn't go well with her hair or her coloring, but nobly refrained. He had enough to tease her with. "Granger received a warning from me that should have made her investigate her political cohorts and wonder who wasn't really supporting her, not suspect that Potter had anything to do with it."

Draco sucked a piece of the fruit dry of its juice behind his teeth, solely for the obnoxious noises he could make with it. "Well, you underestimated Granger. She read _everything, _or, what I suspect is more likely, went back to the earliest days of debate over her legislation instead of contenting herself with the more recent loads of bollocks. And she discovered Potter's interference. Although not the contract," he felt compelled to add, because Daphne looked so acutely miserable. "Potter told her about that himself."

"Then you can't fairly blame me for anything else." Daphne had the audacity to sit up, as though her horrible robe was anything to look at. "Granger wouldn't have broken with Potter if it was over a mere matter of arranging the legislation."

"I think she would have," Draco said, remembering the stubborn, angry woman he'd spoken to yesterday. "It's a matter of principle to her, and Gryffindors care more about principles than people."

Daphne sniffed. "_Still _not something you can blame me for."

"That part, no," Draco had to concede. "But you went into that situation thinking you knew the right things to say to your target, and you didn't. You owe me."

"You don't get your Galleons back," Daphne said at once. "I have a moral objection to giving people's Galleons back."

"Besides, you've already spent the money on your holiday," Draco surmised.

Daphne nodded without a trace of shame. Draco was glad. He would have had to worry about her health if the shame had been there. "But I'm not opposed to working out a favor for you. What did you have in mind?"

"I want you to steal Callia Greengrass's diary," Draco said, and then laughed despite himself at the expression on Daphne's face. _That _was the real reward, he decided, not the fact that she owed him a favor or the taunts he'd been able to give her. He had never seen her so discomposed.

"You know she has one?" Daphne asked.

Draco bowed to her. "I don't. I leave you to find that out. Since you are so good at finding out information. Most of the time," he had to add, so that the color that was leaving her face would come flooding back.

"Why do you want it?" Daphne shook her head, staring at him.

"Worried about your cousin's honor?" Draco smirked at her.

"Don't be ridiculous. She's from a branch of the family too distant for _that_."

Draco nodded, accepting that he owed her the reason. She would doubtless do better work if she had it. "I want to know what she might have said about Potter in the diary. I've been bringing out his fire, and he's more attractive than I expected. But I want to know whether his pretense in front of the Ministry means that he was such a cold fish with her in private, too."

Daphne's stare intensified. Then she shook her head and said, "You don't want to do that, Draco."

"It's always comforting when one of my friends who's let slip information that could endanger us all tells me that," Draco said. "I always have such confidence in her judgment."

"This has nothing to do with what I may have let slip," Daphne said. "And everything to do with that light I see in your eyes when you're talking about someone you've wanted to conquer for a long time. What will Potter think if he knows that you've read Callia's words about him? Or if you _use _the knowledge?"

"I thought we'd read the diary together."

Daphne put her head in her hands. "You didn't think that," she said, voice muffled. "That's a face-saving maneuver you just came up with."

"You'll never know if you don't go and get me the diary like I asked," Draco said, and looked at her with a bright expression that he hoped was convincing. On the other hand, he thought Daphne had gone a bit mad, because she was seeing things in his face that he had never put there.

"I'm not sure I want to know," Daphne said. "But a debt is a debt. Fine. I'll bring the diary to you, if it exists, and what you do with it after that is your business."

Draco closed the Floo connection and sat back to finish his peach. He imagined the juice dripping over Potter's skin and cock, which led to a healthy wanking session, which made him lean back with his eyes closed and lie spent and pleasantly exhausted on the floor of the drawing room.

He hoped that Potter was having a day half as pleasant.

* * *

"Why don't you sit down, Harry?"

Ginny's voice was all sweetness to set the teeth on edge, which made Harry's heart pound with the kind of speed that would usually result in him backing out of the room. This time, though, he had no particular choice but to obey. He sat down on the chair that Ginny offered him and watched her cautiously.

Ginny retreated to the wall, which she leaned against as she put her arm around Luna. Luna leaned her head on Ginny's shoulder. Her eyes were wide as she studied Harry, and Harry tried not to wince. Hurting Luna was somehow even worse than hurting Ron and Hermione, even though she hadn't been his friend as long. She wouldn't understand, on a fundamental level, why he'd done it.

"Ron and Hermione told us about the contract," Ginny said quietly, "but not everything, because they didn't know everything. And now a rumor's reached us that you argued with them because you fancy Hermione. I want to know what's true, and I want to know now."

Her arm that wasn't wrapped around Luna dangled straight down by her side. Harry tried not to obviously look it, but he suspected that he would know the moment her elbow bent and she went for her wand. His instincts were all humming now, and he would have tried to leave if it were about anything less important, _for _anyone less important.

_Like Malfoy, for example. _

But a muscle in his belly tightened when he thought about that, and he wasn't sure that he would have fled Malfoy's anger, or refused to explain to him. He hesitated, and Ginny spoke into the pause.

"Well? Are you going to tell us or not? Because if you want to throw away years of friendship, that's _perfectly fine _with me."

Her voice shook, and Harry caught the quick gleam of tears on her eyelashes. He grimaced and said, "The rumor that I fancy Hermione is just that, a rumor. We're spreading it because I can't have anyone else figure out the truth of the contract right now, and I didn't know what Ron and Hermione might tell anyone else."

"You're still _choosing, _then," Ginny said, her voice dropping. "You're still choosing what they can do, trying to influence them."

"Yes," Harry said. "Because if they decide that they're not my friends, then I have to protect myself, and I can't have people talking about the contract as if it were a real thing right now. The rumor is going to make most people discount what they say if they do talk about their argument with me."

"Selfish," Ginny said.

Harry nodded.

"Not so selfish as I believed him," Luna murmured, but she didn't explain what she meant by that. She reached up instead, and a tiny hummingbird landed on her palm. She spent a moment cupping her fingers around it, scratching its belly feathers, and then placed it solemnly on her shoulder. It watched Harry like a judge. Maybe it was meant to be. "You think there is a chance that none of us will ever forgive you?"

"I'd like to think you would," Harry said. "But I'm through dictating your reactions to me. You can be upset about the rumor, decide not to forgive me about the contract, or whatever else you want. What I _can't _allow is for you to destroy the freedom I'm trying to win from the contract right now. And that means that Sandborn can't know you know."

"Who's helping you get free from the contract, if not us?" Ginny frowned at him.

"The Slytherins. They think they owe me a debt for creating the contract in the first place to get them out of Azkaban."

"Then-they're the ones who taught you how to do this." Ginny sounded cautiously pleased. "To deny your friends and to come up with rumors like this. They're the ones who taught you how to be selfish."

Harry sighed. At one point in time, it would have been unbelievably tempting to agree that that was the case, and the Slytherins were the villains here instead of the saviors, but it wasn't true. "No. I was selfish on my own for a long time before that. They would have discouraged me from the contract if they knew about it, because it created a debt between us that they felt they had to repay."

Ginny closed her eyes. "Tell us what you did for us."

Harry did, keeping it in quiet, simple words. It wasn't as much as he had done for Ron and Hermione, after all. Ginny and Luna had seemed more independent, more content, less in need of achieving goals that Harry would have to wrestle the Ministry for. He had made sure that their licensing as a legitimate business went easily, and that a few officials who had got interested in whether they were violating the Experimental Breeding Ban were "persuaded" to look elsewhere. A few other, minor things. Ginny and Luna listened silently, and then exchanged looks when it was done.

"So, without you, we wouldn't have a business." Ginny's voice was flat. Whatever she had seen in Luna's eyes hadn't reassured her. Luna smiled at Harry, still stroking her hummingbird, but then, Luna smiled often even in the middle of calamity. Her greatest gift was her faith that everything would work itself out. "No one would have bought our products."

"I don't know," Harry said simply. "The same thing I told Ron and Hermione. I don't know if Ron would have become an Auror if I hadn't helped him. He could have, maybe, but I took everything-his struggle, his victory, his chance to prove himself-away from him, even if he never knew it at the time. And your business could have soared, or could have faltered, or could have been refused permission to operate in the first place because people were too concerned about you breeding these tiny animals." He nodded to the hummingbird. "I don't know. That's the problem. That's the hell of it."

Ginny watched him with eyes that had a steady glow of anger. But she hadn't yet cast a hex. Harry let out a breath of temporary relief. He could remember the time when her temper had been so strong that she would have, no matter what he told her or how much he apologized. He was just as glad that he wouldn't have to try to get bats out of his nose or snakes out of his pants. No, wait, Ginny knew he could talk to snakes. She would probably use beetles instead.

"When Hermione came to talk to me yesterday," Ginny said, "she was talking about giving up all the gains from the contract. Approaching our political enemies to tell them what had happened. Ron quitting the Aurors. Hermione quitting her own position. Leaking details that would let George be arrested for whatever you protected him from."

"That's her choice as far as the things that concern just her and Ron," Harry said softly. "If she tries to do anything else-like insist that the Slytherins I freed be tried again-then I'll fight her. That was _still _unjust, to try them for the crimes of their parents, and she won't satisfy anything except her own sense of justice by taking away their property and money now."

"I agree." Ginny showed him teeth as sharp as a fox's. "I told her that she would have to decide what was right for her, and so would Ron, but I wouldn't be joining her. I'm going to keep the business running, and so is Luna. We're going to make our success our own this time, and ignore the foundation that it's built on. If some of our clients listen to the rumors enough to stop buying from us, so be it. We're too _good _to let this just collapse as a matter of principle."

"And we have lives depending on us," Luna said, in her soft, dreamy tone. "And lives waiting for us to find and embody them. Such as the Three-Eyed Sooner."

Harry nodded. "Good. If my approval matters at all, I think that's a good idea."

Ginny stared at him, then laughed in a frustrated way. "God, you _bastard. _I want to hate you, but I just _can't. _I know why you did it, and it's stupid and noble and self-sacrificing and _you _all over. I don't want to forgive you right now, but I know I will." Then her face hardened again. "As long as you don't do something like this _ever again. _If you do, I won't be responsible for my reaction."

Harry bowed to her. "That's entirely fair."

"I also think spreading that rumor about fancying Hermione is a stupid idea," Ginny added. "They'll be more hurt than ever."

Harry spread his hands. "Should I wait for them to forgive me? I don't know if they will. I'd like to wait until they've made a decision one way or the other, but I have a life to lead in the meantime. And if they tell other people about the contract as a reason why they're giving up the things I negotiated for them...it'll come to Sandborn's ears. He'll react. What I want more than anything right now is my freedom. I deserve that. I won't deserve their forgiveness unless it's a free gift."

Ginny leaned forwards and kissed him softly. "Fine. Go and do what you need to do. Just make sure that you can face the fallout."

"Don't worry." Harry smiled at her and stood up. "I have Slytherins on my side."

"At least they've taught you to be _productively _selfish," Ginny said.

Harry raised a hand to her in response and left, his muscles shaking with reaction the minute he was outside their house. He waited a few minutes to Apparate, head bowed, mind whirling.

He needed to go home, take a few hours off, think. The next crisis could come along at anytime, including Ron and Hermione's reaction to the rumor, Sandborn contacting him, or Sandborn finding out the truth. Harry knew that he needed rest and some planning time. It was the mature decision, so he made it and Apparated home.

Funny, though. The immature decision, the selfish one, would have had him Apparating to Malfoy Manor instead.


	23. In Repeated Chimes of Seconds

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Three-In Repeated Chimes of Seconds_

"Harry!"

The sharp call came from the direction of his door, Harry thought, opening his eyes, not his Floo. That was good, wasn't it? Not coming from the direction of the Floo meant there was less chance that he would have to deal with Malfoy this early in the morning, while the person standing at the door was likely to be-

Someone from the Ministry, or one of his friends.

But that recollection only came to him after he had opened his door and stood back to let Hermione in.

She swept into the middle of his drawing room like a storm and turned around to stare at him. Harry, his hand still on the open door, watched her and swallowed slowly. He wished that he could say he knew what she had come here for, either to renew their friendship or to tell him that she would never trust him again, but he had given up thinking he knew her. She didn't know him, which meant their friendship hadn't gone two ways for seven years.

"Sit down."

Harry shut the door and took a seat on the couch, watching her. His hand was exactly three inches from his wand. He hated knowing that, but on the other hand...some of what Hermione had said and wanted to do had made it sound like she might attack him. If he had inflicted a gaping wound like that on a political ally, Harry would have assumed they had instantly become an enemy and he'd have to watch his back. And reading politics had been most of his life for the past seven years.

Hermione surveyed him, eyes critical and also strangely neutral, that expression on her face that hid her intentions. Then she nodded and took a seat on the chair where Zabini had sat that night Harry had all three Slytherins over for a conference.

"Who came up with the idea that I fancied you?" she asked abruptly.

Harry blinked. "The rumor I spread was that _I _fancied _you_, and Ron and you found out and got angry at me," he said. "It's already got corrupted in the telling, I see." _I wonder how Sandborn thinks he has an accurate grasp on the situation at all. Or did he change it on purpose? _

Hermione shook her head. "I still want to know who came up with it."

"Malfoy had the initial idea," Harry said. "We refined it together."

Hermione slammed her hands down in the middle of the table. Harry jumped and then looked back at her, hiding most of his emotions under his own neutral mask. He had no idea what half the signals Hermione was giving off meant: the way she breathed, the way her eyes darted back and forth, the red tone to her cheeks, the determined heft to her chin that she gave when Harry assumed she would stand and leave the room.

"I'm not asking for much," she said. "But can't you _realize _that Malfoy is the root cause of all of this? He's the one who comes up with ideas like this and uses them to turn you against your friends for a lark."

"No, I'm the root cause of all this," Harry correct her, quietly but stubbornly. "I'm the one who came up with the contract and talked Sandborn into signing and guaranteeing me some things in return for my performance. That isn't the same thing. Malfoy _is _the one who leads the group of Slytherins that found out about the debt and decided to help me. But no matter how many nasty ideas he came up with, I'm the one who chose to put them into operation."

Hermione leaned back in her seat and stared at him. Harry stared back. He would be happy to agree with lots of things she said, and disagree with the rest. His heart was pounding, but for some reason, his defensive instincts had calmed down now, and he didn't think they would actually react again unless she hurled a curse at him. For some reason, it was just-this was a conversation with his friend that he thought he could expect to finish reasonably.

"Why did you spread that particular rumor?" Hermione whispered. "You ought to have known that we would keep the news of the contract to ourselves."

Harry shook his head. "I don't know. Anything I did in reaction to you might have been presumed to be controlling you. And if you're hurt enough not to forgive me, then you might have spread the news of the contract."

"We wouldn't do that to you." Hermione stared at him with her mouth set down firmly. "No matter what you did to _us_."

"That's good to know," Harry said, because he had no other words.

"So take the rumor back," Hermione said.

"When I'm free of Sandborn, then I'll be glad to," Harry said. "Until then, it's serving its purpose as a story distracting him from the real seeds of my argument with you. I'm sorry," he added, when Hermione flushed. "But it's too useful that way. And if I tried to spread another story now, he would probably decide the first one was a lie, and start digging under that to see what I was hiding."

"Is your freedom worth any price, then?" Hermione asked with a soft gust of breath. "Even hurting us?"

"I don't want to kill anyone," Harry said. "That's a price that I won't pay, and believe me, murdering Sandborn would be the simplest solution in some ways. But I'm not going to hurt him," he added hastily, because Hermione's eyes had widened in a way that said she might not believe him. "He's-he's not my friend, but he's only done what he promised to with the contract, all the times that he had to. I want to be free of him, and I know he won't let me go free if I ask. That's the only reason we're enemies."

"But you'll hurt us."

Harry nodded. "I always knew that revealing the contract would hurt you, so I made that choice a long time ago. Sorry."

"You don't _sound _sorry."

Harry sighed, and decided that he could explain his three souls. He put it into words as best he could, while Hermione sat listening with shadowed eyes. She broke in only once, when he was describing the difference between his first soul and his second one. "You were lying when you were with us? All the time?"

"What you saw and heard, yes," Harry said. "Not my emotions." Then he hesitated, because he wasn't entirely sure that his shallow versions of enthusiasm and excitement and love-shallow when compared to what Malfoy clearly felt for his friends-would count. "Maybe my emotions, too. I don't know."

Hermione closed her eyes and gestured for him to continue. Harry finished up with his third soul and the way he could only express it in private, at least until the point when Malfoy stirred him up and he started learning about all the things that he'd put off as best he could. She shook her head then.

"Why was Malfoy the one who could wake you up?" she whispered. "Why not one of us?"

"Because he knew about the contract." Harry groped for words again. "The contract was a prison that was keeping me in. Anyone who approached it from the outside could see ways to break its walls, I think, but I couldn't, because I'd got too used to being trapped inside it. So he overheard the conversation, and he got indignant about it, and he broke me free. He used the debt as a justification, and hell, maybe it was his only reason when this began. But I don't think it's his only reason now," he added quietly, savoring the soft, uncertain certainty that was starting to bloom in him.

"It _has _to be," Hermione said, and squashed the hope. "Someone like him isn't capable of-of disinterested generosity, and friendship."

"The way that someone like me isn't capable of lying to his friends for seven years?" Harry asked.

Hermione flushed a deeper red than he'd seen her face attain yet. Her mouth opened, dangled for a moment, and shut again.

"I think we need to abandon the classification of people into Slytherins and Gryffindors," Harry said. "It hasn't done us a bloody bit of good since we left Hogwarts behind. I call them 'the Slytherins,' Malfoy and his friends, because it's convenient, and they like to call themselves that because it makes the fact that they feel they owe me a debt more understandable."

"And they _are _Slytherins," Hermione pointed out, in the voice of someone who'd been bursting with that information for the last five minutes. "I think we should still keep that in mind."

Harry shrugged. "Malfoy's spent too much time on this for this just to be a lark to him, and he's involved other people in sending Callia away, and tricking Sandborn, and trying to baffle you. This is a big operation. At some point, I would have expected the inconvenience to make him toss me away. But it hasn't."

Hermione shook her head. "You're becoming more like him. I think that's the reason you hurt us."

Harry glared at her, truly angry for the first time since he'd told her about the contract. "Blame _me_," he said. "I was the one who made the stupid decisions, Hermione. I was the one who was ready to sacrifice you and Ron and your pride, and even Callia, and even the family I'd always wanted, to the contract. Malfoy is the one who saw through that and made me wake up. Maybe it'll turn out that he was stupid to help me in the end, because he's poured so much of himself into this and I can't give him much in return. But I don't think so. I think that he took the risk to help me, and I owe him. I'll repay him by passing the risk on to other people. He told me he was honest, and I have to be honest in return. If I'd kept lying to you about the contract, that would have dishonored his sacrifice."

Hermione stared at him with her mouth open by the end. Harry blinked at her. "What?" he asked.

"You're talking about him like you're bloody in love with him," Hermione said in a faint, shocked voice. "I-Harry, you can't _really_."

Harry shook his head. "I did a lot of things in the past few years that I shouldn't have, that I wouldn't have if I'd been thinking about you instead of myself. This isn't one of them."

Hermione reached out and clutched his hand. Harry held it back fiercely. She would probably remember in a minute and take it away, but for now, it felt damn good to touch a friend's hand.

"I want you to be with someone who can make you happy," Hermione whispered, rapid eyes scanning his face as if she would see something different in him if she looked at him multiple times. "I want you to be with someone who can change things for you. Malfoy won't give you anything permanent, you know that. He can't manage a relationship with someone longer than a year!"

"Thank you, Hermione," Harry said, and smiled at her. There was a painful ache behind the smile, but he managed it. "It means-a lot-that you still care about me."

Hermione flushed again, her spine straightening, but she said, "Harry, please. Think about it."

"I don't know if there's going to be anything permanent between Malfoy and me yet, friendship or otherwise," Harry said. He briefly debated telling her they'd slept with each other, but decided that there was a difference between honesty and gossip. "But-even if there isn't, Hermione, he's the reason that I'm going to be happier. And that you and Ron are going to be happier, too, I hope, no matter what you decide on."

Hermione pulled her hands away as though she'd been burned. "I want to be," she said, tone frigid. "But I wish that you wouldn't say anything about it. It's thanks to you that we're hurting right now."

Harry nodded. "I know."

Hermione squirmed in place for a moment, kicking her foot, which made Harry wonder what she was thinking. Then she burst out, "How can you just sit there and calmly say that? It makes you sound like you really don't care about us at all! Like you're just indulging us!"

Harry sighed and rubbed his face. "I don't have the right to get angry at you," he said. "Unless you try to hurt someone like Malfoy who really _wasn't _involved in this like you think he was," he had to add. "So yelling at you would make it sound like I was trying to force you to forgive me, being calm makes me sound indifferent, and being sad and guilty makes it sound like I'm trying to guilt you into forgiving me. There's no way to react well to this, Hermione. The situation was my fault. But what you choose next really has to be your free choice. Not up to me."

"You could be a little sorrier," Hermione muttered, folding her arms and looking away. "Or aren't you?"

Harry grimaced and nodded. "Yeah. Sorry as hell that I didn't tell you earlier. That at least might have meant that you had more time to recover from it. Sorry that I made the contract in the first place. Sorry that you had to do some investigating of your own before you came to me. I would have preferred it if I'd had the courage to tell you about the contract on my own, and not for any outside reason."

Hermione glanced back at him. "That sounds a little better," she said, and then tightened her lips again. "But-Harry, I don't know if we can forgive you that easily. I _want _to, but then part of my mind points out exactly what you did, and that makes me angry again."

Harry nodded. "Wait. Take your time. If it takes you some time to forgive me, that wouldn't be at all unusual."

"If we never forgive you?"

Harry tried to swallow. He couldn't. He wanted to reach out and hold Hermione's hand, but he couldn't do that, either, though for different reasons. "Then-I'd say good-bye and good luck," he muttered at last, when he had the spit for the words. "And I'm sorry."

Hermione studied him with a gaze that made him wince for its sharpness for a few minutes, then nodded and stood up. "I believe you, for a wonder," she said dryly. "I hope that you contact us if you change your mind."

"About?" Harry stood up, too, following her as she walked to the door. His heartbeat was calming now, and he felt a bit of cautious happiness that he wouldn't let himself investigate too closely. She had sought him out of her own free will, after all. Ron hadn't come with her, but it sounded as though Hermione was speaking for both of them. And she had touched him and acted sincerely concerned for his happiness.

"About Malfoy." Hermione's face was pale and set. "I think he has a lot more to do with this than you believe."

Harry felt free to roll his eyes this time. "Hermione, will you give it a rest? Malfoy didn't put me up to the contract. He did goad me into confessing, in a way. I would never have had the courage to, if not for him. But he isn't mind-controlling me or whatever you think he's doing."

"There's more than one way of mind-controlling a person," Hermione muttered, but lifted her hand when Harry glared at her. "Fine. But come and speak to us when you learn the truth."

"Good-bye, Hermione," Harry said, and shut the door when she was gone, and leaned against it, rubbing his eyes.

He understood why she wanted to blame Malfoy. She still couldn't reconcile Harry's behavior with the person she'd known. It would be so much simpler to say it was Malfoy's fault, because she'd always mistrusted him.

But that didn't make it right for her to do so. If Harry had done this, the consequences should fall on him. Not on other people.

He stood there, debating, for a few minutes, and then sighed and went to the Floo. If there _was _a chance that Malfoy could be in danger of being accused, whatever Harry's friends decided, then Harry needed to warn him.

* * *

Draco leafed through Callia Greengrass's diary one more time before putting it down and rolling his eyes. _That _had been a waste of the favor Daphne owed him for fucking up.

Callia wrote down every detail of her days, yes, and her own emotional reactions, which had been better than Draco had thought; he had pictured her as one of the people who uselessly noted events but nothing else. But those emotional reactions were so understated that Draco thought an etiquette violation would have earned more outrage from her than any murder she witnessed. She was disgusted when the taste of her tea was off. She was looking forward to her marriage with Potter. The latest gown she had bought did not fit her and she would have to have it refitted.

Nothing that would have brought Potter alive, in all his glowing fire-colors, before Draco's eyes. Of course, Draco knew that she probably had never seen that fire, but how could one remain around Potter for so long and not see at least a _trace? _Potter was well-rid of someone so oblivious that she would spend less time noting Potter's latest arrest than the gown that didn't fit.

His fireplace flared with the pattern of fire that Draco had come up with for Potter: three long and then three short, symbolic of the public show he put on with the private one hiding beneath it. Draco found himself smiling as he reached out and gave gracious permission for the Floo to open.

Daphne might be on to something after all when she said that he was more invested in Potter than in others he'd courted or slept with.

"Something wrong?" Draco asked lightly when Potter's face appeared. Potter looked distressed. Then again, that was his most common expression. Draco sometimes feared that Potter would never get the natural tone of his muscles back when he was free and learn to laugh and smile again.

"Hermione just came over to talk to me," Potter announced.

"Yes, that _is _wrong," Draco agreed, worried for a moment that Sandborn was more impressive than he had appeared. "She shouldn't have come near you until her little indignation play wore down. Did you check for Polyjuice?"

Potter rolled his eyes, and Draco felt comforted. If he had recovered his natural faculties of irritation and outrage so easily, then perhaps Draco need not worry over whether he would do the same thing with joy. "No, you git. That isn't the problem. But she still wants to think that you're behind the contract, or that you corrupted me somehow, and I'm worried about what she might try. I don't even want to try to predict her now."

"Because that would somehow constitute controlling her behavior?" Draco snorted. "You're too delicate, Potter. Of course it's fine to try and work out what someone is going to do, particularly when that person is threatening you with exposure. Or an ally with exposure," he had to add, because he doubted Potter would see a threat against Draco as the threat to himself it _could _be.

Potter shook his head. "I don't want to give myself false hope by pretending she might come back, if she's not going to," he whispered, looking like someone whose brand-new Crup puppy had drowned.

"Oh, stop feeling self-pity," Draco said, rescuing the Crup puppy and setting it firmly back on dry land again. Potter gaped at him, and Draco rolled his eyes. "_Listen_. You've agreed that you needed to go on fighting for your freedom whether your friends decide to join you, stand on the sidelines, or join your enemies-"

"They wouldn't," Potter said, with utter certainty. "Not Ron and Hermione."

Draco tactfully refrained from pointing out that his Gryffindor friends were also supposed to be above conflating members of their Houses _with _those Houses and assigning blame to innocent people. "What they do doesn't matter as far as pursuing your freedom goes," he said. "You ought to come over here so that we can plan the next step."

"Hermione also said that Sandborn is changing the rumor," Potter said, which missed a hint so broad Draco thought it impossible not to walk into. "That now she fancies me instead of the other way around."

Draco nodded. "That's good."

Potter peered at him. "Why?"

Draco shrugged. "Other people who pay attention to it will know that it's probably a rumor, since it exists in multiple versions. That makes it less likely they'll believe it, and so your friends are less likely to be hurt." Of course, that was really only a desirable result to someone like Potter, but he seemed to need it, so Draco would pretend that _he _believed it, too. "Sandborn thinks he knows the truth and he's just making you look better. He'll probably focus more on you, not so much on your friends."

"You think so." Potter was relaxing.

"Yes," Draco said. "And so do you. Honestly, Potter, some of these things I'm telling you are truths that you would understand for yourself if you just _paid attention. _Why won't you?"

Potter flushed. "It's hard to think about things like that when your best friends are angry at you and your life is crumbling around you," he snapped.

"Crumbling around you to make way for a new, better one." Draco picked up Callia's diary and flourished it at Potter. "If you come over here and read this, you'll see just how much better."

"What is that?" Potter looked as if he might really believe that Draco had a secret set of instructions for overturning the world. Draco refrained from cackling and rubbing his hands together, in the interests of not getting a noseful of Potter's wand.

"Callia's diary," Draco said. "I recovered it because I wanted to see if she ever knew the real Potter. She knew some construct, I think, but it's hard to tell because she focuses so much on herself." He gave Potter a smile that he knew was pure temptation, because several people had told him so. "Don't you want to know what she said about you? It might cheer you up, knowing how thoroughly you escaped."

Potter stared at him. "You read a diary," he said. "Without permission."

"You're right," Draco said. "That's _much _worse than making your fiancée believe that she'll die if she has your children."

Potter buried his head in his hands and gave a laugh that sounded mostly exasperated. "You have me there," he muttered. "Sometimes I wish that you weren't so honest."

"Sorry, Potter," Draco said. "That's the one thing about me you'll never change." He smiled at Potter, content in a way that was difficult to describe. He hadn't felt this way with Astoria, who he had stayed with longest, or with Peter, his most recent lover. He made a beckoning gesture, and this time Potter took the hint and picked up the Floo powder.

"It's ridiculous, how much comfort I get from you," he told Draco, when he was standing on Draco's carpet and brushing off the soot.

Draco made a little moue at him. "Let the house-elves clean that up. Come here and read this with me."

Potter settled on the couch beside him, and Draco tilted his head to the side so that he could breathe in more of the brewing scent around the man. Sweat, and sleep, and the rough wool of his robe.

_I don't think it's ridiculous at all._


	24. Before the Charge

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Four-Before the Charge_

"Of course I understand, Madam Rettern."

Astoria's voice was calm and sweet and everything that could be desired by a paranoid, ambitious Wizengamot member who wanted her investigation to succeed. She knew it was, because she had practiced on Blaise before she came here. Rettern had sent her a letter that was too harsh and insistent to be anything other than a declaration of war. She wanted to know why Potter hadn't come back to speak with her, and few of the answers that Astoria could give would both satisfy her and be true.

Rettern paced up and down in front of Astoria now, her hands clasped behind her back, as though she was making a speech to several doubting colleagues. "What _he_ doesn't understand," she said, with such viciousness that Astoria honestly couldn't tell if the "he" referred to Potter or to Sandborn, "is that he must pay for his crimes. Refusing a member of my family a position? Humiliating her before the peers she must find a place among, and whose laughter devastates her? Unacceptable!"

_Sandborn, then. _Astoria nodded and sat up. "While having an alliance with Potter would certainly accomplish that," she said, with enough brightness that Rettern turned to face her, "there is another thing you should consider, Madam. By all the reports that I have been able to hear, Potter is breaking from Sandborn on his own."

Rettern narrowed her eyes and shook her head. "Why would he? He has no reason to think that he will have support in the politics of the Ministry without the Minister behind him. And Sandborn would hate him. He always does hate those who are more independent than he is, who can stand separately from him, who are better than he is..."

Astoria hastily cut her off. She didn't want to listen to another demented ramble from Rettern; it wouldn't tell her anything she didn't already know. "Yes, Madam, but I think that Potter is finally fed up enough with Sandborn to want to leave. And he doesn't care to play a part in Ministry politics."

Rettern stared at her doubtfully, and then hissed under her breath. "That would mean that Potter's a loose political asset, lying around for anyone to pick up. He could be more dangerous to me that way than as the pawn of an enemy!"

Astoria checked her sigh with difficulty. The woman was more self-centered than a top, always seeing everything that happened solely in the ways that it affected her and her ill-defined ambitions, and never trying to make a true alliance with anyone else. People were there for using. It actually amazed Astoria that she didn't get along better with Sandborn, who thought the same way.

_Perhaps she would have, but for the personal humiliation._

Astoria put the thought away with a shudder. At least they weren't trying to counteract an alliance between Sandborn and Rettern, then, but their separate actions, which could be quite as annoying in their own way.

"He could become that way," she said aloud, "but I don't think he will. He's talked about being tired of politics and the spectacles that follow even his most ordinary arrests, and I think he means it."

Rettern shot her a look that would have scorched Astoria's pride if she had ever made it available for this woman to scorch. "And what do you know about it? Been meeting privately with him, have you?"

Astoria didn't clench her hands. She would do plenty of that later, when she went over this stupid argument with Blaise. She said evenly, "I've spoken with him, Madam, yes. I wanted to assure myself that he would make a good partner for my friend Draco Malfoy, whom he's shown some interest in. And Potter's not as good a liar as everyone has always thought he was. He had the benefit of Sandborn thinking for him during those years. He couldn't hide real ambition if he had it."

That was true, as it happened. Potter's one ambition seemed to be to retreat into himself and let the world go by. It was only one of many reasons that Astoria didn't think this alliance-personal, sexual, political, whichever one it turned out to be-with Draco wouldn't work. Draco was a creature of public light and movement, and Potter wanted to hibernate like a tortoise.

"It might work, to let him alone and go after Sandborn instead," Rettern muttered doubtfully to herself.

Astoria felt her back muscles relax. This was the moment she'd been waiting for all evening. "It might," she said, letting her voice frost with new doubt. "But, on the other hand, Madam Rettern, you wanted him for your ally. Surely that still endures? Potter has the fame and the name recognition even if he shortly won't have the Minister's backing anymore."

Rettern gave her a frosty look in return. "Are you saying that a plan to leave Potter alone wouldn't work?"

Astoria opened her mouth, then hesitated.

Rettern gave her a thin smile. "I'm not like the obstinate mules that you might have been used to herding, girl." Astoria let the "girl" pass, in the sure and certain knowledge that Rettern would pay for it later, when she tried to step into a political arena that she wasn't ready for. "I can learn better. I can see reason. Yes, I wanted Potter beside me, but if he's going to take _himself _out of the contest, that's as good as a pawn who jumps off the board. I'll take on Sandborn instead."

_And you might well lose, _Astoria added in silence. Sandborn would be furious from the loss of Potter, and eager to take on another enemy to show the critical, watching audience that he hadn't lost all his political ability along with his star Auror. He would fly at Rettern, and it couldn't happen to a more expendable Wizengamot member. If they went down together, tangled up in each other's hatreds and screaming at each other about whose fault the resulting chaos in the wizarding world was, that would be the sweetest outcome.

Rettern waved a hand grandly at her. "You may go back to Potter and tell him that I won't contact him again. Someone with no ambition is useless to me."

_Thank Merlin. I'm sick of her chatter. _Astoria rose, eyes on the floor, and bowed. Of course it was more than she owed any member of the Wizengamot, and someone intelligent would have realized that long since, but Rettern was the one Astoria had chosen to use as a tool for more reasons than just her grudge against Sandborn.

Rettern's Floo took her quickly home, and Astoria stepped into Blaise's arms with a grateful groan and closed her eyes. Blaise cupped her shoulders, his hands running gently down to her elbows. His talented fingers massaged away tension that she hadn't realized was there. She thought of her spine as the tense point in her body, but more gathered in her arms and shoulders than she generally remembered.

"Was it hard?" he murmured.

"I got her to agree to concentrate on Sandborn alone and leave Potter out of it," Astoria answered, opening her eyes. "And I never have to see her again. My debt to Potter is paid."

Blaise chuckled, and reached down to put a hand in Aurora's hair as she toddled forwards to grab Astoria's legs. Astoria smiled down at her daughter and swept her up. Blaise put his arms around them both this time, with a smile of contentment.

Draco, Astoria knew, still thought that she had "settled" for something small and inferior by choosing Blaise and a life with him. But then again, Draco wanted Potter, an inferior and unwise choice if there ever was one. So she didn't have to consider his opinion of her to have much weight.

This was what she wanted, she thought, as Blaise led them away to settle Aurora with the house-elves for the night and then take her to bed. This was her choice.

* * *

Sitting that close to Malfoy as they read through the diary together, Harry kept breathing in his scent. It had to be some poncey shampoo, he thought at first, or the remnants of a potion he'd brewed. No one smelled like that naturally.

But the moments passed, and Malfoy shifted over so that he could turn a page-for some reason, he objected to Harry turning the pages in his ex-fiancée's diary, as though he assumed Harry would lash out and rip them free for no reason-and the smell grew more intense in Harry's nostrils. And at that moment, Harry's nose was close to nothing but Malfoy's shoulder, not his hair.

_His clothes? _That was another possibility. Harry wouldn't be surprised if Malfoy told his house-elves to wash his clothes in lavender water or something equally ridiculous.

_And if I said that aloud, Malfoy would get this serious expression and lecture me about how lavender water doesn't work for laundry like that, but does wonders for the skin._

Harry glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Malfoy was grinning as he traced one underlined passage with his finger. Seen like this, someone could imagine that he was normal, Harry thought. There was no trace of the unusual exuberance in him, the seriousness that nevertheless refused to take life too seriously, the heat that had filled his voice when he flirted with Harry in front of Sandborn.

And then Malfoy glanced up and caught him staring.

A smile flooded his face in an instant, lazy and bright as summer sunshine on a lawn. Harry turned his head away, flushing. He felt Malfoy reach up, and managed not to start when the floating fingers settled on his face, brushing up and down lightly enough to make Harry break out in involuntary shivers.

"I'm getting rather bored with the book, too," Malfoy breathed. "We could set it aside and explore more _interesting _things." His hand drifted down to Harry's lap, and although Harry didn't look sideways to see his reaction when it settled on Harry's cock, he could feel the contentment pooling around him, melted gold, sunlight again.

It would be easy to sink into that contentment and give in. Harry wanted to fuck Malfoy, to learn how it was different with a man than with a woman, to touch and take and seek something less complicated than it would ever have been with Ginny, or even Callia. He could walk away from Malfoy any time he wanted, after all, as long as he took precautions so that Pansy Parkinson wouldn't kill him. But he would have married Callia, and been bound to her by the terms of his contract with Sandborn.

His thoughts effectively killed his erection, and Malfoy made a commiserating noise. "It's like that, then? Don't worry. I have potions."

Harry whirled on him, crushing the diary between them as he grabbed Malfoy's wrists and pressed him back into the couch. Malfoy widened his eyes back in response, his pulse jumping endlessly in his throat as though Harry had done something much more exciting than this. Harry felt himself hardening again and forced his body to be still. Shifting to hide his stiffness from Malfoy would inevitably attract his attention instead.

"You're impossible," Harry growled at him. "You can't be serious for three words, can you?"

"It's a burden," Malfoy said, and Harry might have thought that part was serious if he hadn't waited. Sure enough, Malfoy laughed richly in the next second and arched so that his chest brushed Harry's. Harry let him go and sprang back, distracting himself by reaching for the diary so that he could smooth its crumpled pages.

"All of this is so much simpler than you're making it," Malfoy said to him, softly, his hand settling on Harry's flank as though soothing a skittish horse. "We can have so much fun, and it's going to be _brilliant _when I fuck you. Or when you fuck me," he added, as Harry glared at him. "That's the brilliant part. We don't even know what we'll like yet. We have so much left to discover."

"And when the discovering's done?" Harry asked harshly. "Is that the end of everything?"

Malfoy shrugged. "I would hope not, but I know that things will change for you. Are changing, or you would never have agreed to come to my side in the first place. It's up to you what you want to do after you're free from Sandborn. Do you realize that, how _free _you're going to be? And as long as we make sure that he can't strike at you the instant the contract's done, you're going to go on being free." He smiled at Harry. "I'm content with what my life's become, but I would still give a lot to be in your position, with your power and your ability to command your own future, facing whatever I could make of it."

Harry hesitated. He wanted to say that his freedom meant nothing without friends, but Malfoy would scoff at the idea, and besides, he didn't know if his friends would stay away from him forever. Once he was free of Sandborn, he could also concentrate on communicating with them better, if that would help, and deciding what he could and couldn't do as far as their friendship went.

But that wasn't all he wanted to do. And if they made some final decision soon, either leaving him behind as they grew on into new lives or deciding to talk to him, that still left years where, as Malfoy said, he would have to be the one to decide what he wanted.

He wanted...

He might, right now, want this.

He leaned up and kissed Malfoy. Malfoy touched the side of his neck, hesitantly, as though he didn't know what Harry intended and thought he might have to strangle him in self-defense. That idea made Harry laugh into Malfoy's mouth, and he felt him relax, resting his hands on Harry's shoulders and laughing back.

The world was rolling and changing around him. He had decisions to make, but he didn't have to make all of them _now. _That was what Malfoy had meant about having years ahead of him.

And if Ron and Hermione had a chance to grow into new lives, then so did he.

"I don't want to have sex right now," he gasped, drawing back from Malfoy when Malfoy's arms tried to urge him onto the couch.

"Liar," Malfoy murmured, looking down.

Harry flushed, then shrugged. "I can't afford it right now, then," he said. "I want to talk about other things. But I think-I think that I'm going to enjoy having you in my life, and that I want you to stick around for a while. If you want to," he added, because he hadn't forgotten what Malfoy said about wanting to leave lovers.

Malfoy's smile was long and low and lovely, like sunlight, again. "I would like that," he said. "Or like to think about it, at least."

He kissed Harry, and Harry was happy.

* * *

Ginny leaned back in her chair and stretched so hard that she felt as if she'd wrenched her shoulder. Luna's hands descended on her, massaging, and Ginny smiled. That ache would fade away, she knew, because Luna was much better at that than Ginny had ever thought she could be, much better than Ginny had given her credit for.

"That's it, then?" Luna murmured into her ear.

"Yes." Ginny turned her head and let her nose rest in the crook of Luna's arm for a second. One of the hummingbirds on Luna's shoulder crooned, and Ginny forced herself to stand. "As much as it can ever be over. Most of our clients seem to be _our _clients, and most of them have reassured me that they have no intention of going anywhere, no matter what happens in the Ministry." Because she didn't want to reveal the existence of the contract between Harry and Sandborn, she'd had to question them in roundabout ways, explaining that Ministry politics would change soon and hinting that she knew about their possible patronage of her business because of Harry. Most of them had sounded sincere when they said she had nothing to worry about, and they were too pleased to have warning of the possible change coming to be offended at the cryptic questions.

"Good," Luna said simply. "Then let's go have dinner and a bath."

Ginny smiled as she stood up and followed Luna into the next room. There were times that she did think, ruefully, that she would never understand Luna, and that her life would have been much simpler with someone else for her partner. Someone whose words she grasped half the time, someone whose sense of humor and vision of reality more closely matched her own.

And then Luna said or did exactly what she needed, and Ginny was reminded of the reasons that she'd fallen in love.

* * *

"It's serious."

Pansy had said that the moment she laid eyes on him through the fireplace, and Draco pretended not to know what she meant. "What's serious?" he yawned, delicately screwing one hand into his eye and then blinking away the dust of sleep that fell from it. Normally he would have cleared that off long before Pansy got a chance to see him, but she'd firecalled too early.

"The way that you're in love with Potter."

Draco looked down at his shirt, wondering if some of Potter's drool remained there. There was none. "I don't know what you mean," he said haughtily, but rather spoiled it with another yawn.

"You're still wearing the same clothes you did yesterday," Pansy said wisely.

Draco rolled his eyes at her. "That was because you called at an unreasonable hour and I had to grab the things that were closest to the bed," he responded.

"It's still something you would never do unless your mind was elsewhere." Pansy wore a smile that twisted in several different directions, as though she couldn't decide whether she wanted to be delighted or upset. "And you had Potter over yesterday, didn't you? Have you gone one day without seeing him in the last week?"

"Yes," Draco said, but then paused, momentarily unable to remember which day it had been. This was why Pansy shouldn't firecall him _this _early in the morning. "And anyway, he only comes to me when he has problems. If I was really in love with him, or if it was something that could lead to love, then you would expect him to come over and spend time with me for the pleasure of my company."

"My," Pansy cooed, leaning forwards, "your mind is _not _working properly this morning. I didn't say anything about Potter being in love with you. I said something about you being in love with him."

Draco shook his head impatiently. "You still haven't proved that, unless you're going to point to a lack of evidence _as _evidence. Why would you think I'd fall in love with someone that earnest, and that stupid? He was stupid enough to sell himself to Sandborn, instead of seeking other paths."

"One could also argue that he was wise enough to come up with a path that Sandborn would accept, and seize on the opportunities that chance presented," Pansy replied thoughtfully, leaning back in her chair. Draco glared at her through bleary eyes and hated her, because. "And we didn't ask him to do what he did for us, which was why we owed a debt, but he managed it anyway. How many lives has he affected, how many changed, even when the people he's done that for don't know about it? Yes, I think one could argue that he's surprisingly smart and versatile for someone who doesn't know as much as he should about politics."

"That last sentence wasn't worthy of you," Draco said, after thinking about it a few more times to be sure."

Pansy laughed at him. "Draco, Draco, it's not that I mind you falling for Potter if all you want is a bit of fun," she said. "But you ought to know that I'll be evaluating him strictly if you mean to take him as a serious lover. Is he really that good? Is he really that good a choice for you? And so on."

"I don't think you can make him leave by suggesting that he'll turn to stone if he has my children."

Pansy sniffed and flicked her fingers. "I know enough about him now, after studying him, that I could make him turn tail and leave with a few carefully-chosen words. I'm simply studying the situation in turn, to see if it needs to come to that."

It was early. Draco was still tired and stumbling, and he had to worry about whether Pansy-especially after Daphne-had seen something concerning his relationship with Potter that he had not. If they were right, then that meant he had to worry about how much his heart was entangled with Potter. But he knew one thing.

He drew his wand and murmured a spell. It curled around him for a moment, nearly taking the form of a white, smoky snake, and then hurried away from him and through the fireplace. Draco lowered his wand and watched Pansy's face change as she felt the invisible coils work their way around her throat.

"You can say a lot of things," Draco said simply. "To me, almost anything at all. But if you try to hurt Potter, then you're going to find that you can't. I've always wondered what it was like to choke to death," he added, thinking about it and feeling a little more cheerful. "I hope you'll tell me."

Pansy studied him some more. Then she nodded. "That would be another sign that you're in love with Potter," she said. "Why do you keep _handing _them to me? You ought to know that I would prey on them in the way that you would prey on any similar sign of weakness with me."

Draco shook his head. "I don't joke about Theodore that way. You'd kill me if I did. And I don't mind if you joke about my casual lovers; they're dead history to me in a few weeks, a year at the most. If I was binding myself to someone as shallow as Callia, I'd hope you would rescue me, and then put me down. It would be an act of mercy. But I've invested enough of myself in bringing Potter's fire out that I don't want you to cool it, as you could, with those words."

Pansy frowned. "You feel about him the way that I feel about Theodore," she said slowly.

"Right now, yes," Draco said. "That might change if he does, or if he wants to get away from me after he's free. But right now."

"Theo and I are married," Pansy said, as if that made some difference.

Draco raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps someday Potter and I will be, as well."

Pansy made a harsh face. "I can't see you doing that."

"Then that must mean that you don't really believe that I'm in love with him after all."

Stymied by her own logic, Pansy settled for scowling at him. "I'll find a way to take this charm off me."

"You're welcome to try," Draco said, and he hit the combination of ease and off-handedness just right, because she crossed her eyes at him and vanished from the fire.

Draco leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, silently congratulating himself. The congratulations wore off as he thought about Potter, and the way his eyes flashed, and how he had barely kept himself from pressing against Draco that afternoon, and how it was somehow more wonderful than some of the sex that Draco had had.

Was that being in love?

He'd felt worse.


	25. Avalanche Season

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Five-Avalanche Season_

Harry checked the report he was working on again and shook his head. The misspellings that people would come up with the second they were tired or not thinking straight about their English defied belief. He'd spent five minutes squinting at one handwritten word before he could make out that it was _privacy_. Apparently Auror Carum thought it was spelled with an e, and then had added two more to make sure that the point _really _got across.

"Potter."

Harry looked up, unsurprised to find an Auror he didn't know well standing there. People had been stopping by all day, rather unsubtly trying to tempt him into gossip about his fight with Ron and Hermione. It surprised Harry, a bit, that they were so interested. He and Ron had had fights before, and Hermione had made plenty of people angry working towards the legislation she wanted to pass on house-elf rights.

_The legislation you ensured would pass for her. _

Harry hid the little wince he wanted to give. The Auror in front of him wouldn't understand. With some thought, he managed to dredge up her name. "Auror Allen?" He gave her a polite, meaningless smile of the sort that his first soul had raised to an artform. "What's the matter?"

Allen, a ghostly blonde who in some ways reminded him of Malfoy, gave him a pitying look. "You've got Minister Sandborn angry at you somehow, Potter," she said. "I just thought I would stop by and warn you that he'll probably be sending a flunky for you soon."

Harry blinked. "Thanks," he said. "Do you know what he's angry about?"

"I was passing by his office, and heard him shouting your name strongly enough to overcome what seemed to be an army of silencing spells." Allen paused for effect. "Not to mention that I was hearing thumps and crashes, like vases splintering apart against the walls."

Harry took a slow, deep breath. It was true that Sandborn kept a set of ornamental vases in his office that were specifically designed to break apart on impact, but Harry had never made him angry enough to throw them. Instead, he had spent afternoons in Sandborn's office watching him pace back and forth and snarl about the stupid people who defied his rule.

"Thanks," he said again. Then he hesitated. He had dealt well enough with curiosity by assigning it to his third soul and doing private research projects in Muggle libraries, he thought, but he couldn't help trying to gratify it now. "Why are you telling me this?"

"You saved my life on that fucked-up case last year where the murderer was transforming into a bird to escape." Allen gave him a nod. "You gave me the advice that let me spot him hiding among a flock of sparrows before he could kill me. I don't forget."

Harry saluted back and watched her leave, glad that he had at least one ally among the inquisitive Auror ranks. He reckoned a few good relationships had come out of the things he did himself, not because they were part of the contract.

_Not many, though. _He wanted those thoughts to remind himself of what he had really been like, just in case he ever started thinking that the contract had been a good, or forgivable, thing.

He stood up and spent a few moments raking coals onto the subtle, flicking flame of his first soul. He had to make sure that he showed nothing but that when he went in to face Sandborn, or he would get in worse trouble than he already was.

He left the office at last with a quietly careless air, hardly bothering to close the door behind him. If someone wanted to break in and steal the reports he was correcting and filing, they were more than welcome to do so.

* * *

Draco lay back on his couch with a glass of lemonade in one hand, marvelously iced such as only his house-elves knew how to make, and the copy of Potter's contract that Daphne had stolen for him in the other. He sipped from the one and read the second with the same laziness. There was, at the moment, nothing urgent that he needed to protect Potter from.

The money and properties that he and the other Slytherins had gained because of Potter seemed, to him, to be safe. His endeavors to give people reasons not to testify against him had continued. Daphne was safer than the rest of them, given her lifestyle. Blaise's mother had promised her protection if someone struck against Blaise and Astoria's family, and Pansy and Theo had flown farther under public notice than the rest accused. It was still possible that Sandborn would attempt to stir up trouble against them when he discovered Potter was leaving his service, but unlikely that he would succeed. And they were forewarned. That could mean everything, in a game like this.

He didn't care about the things Potter had fought for that concerned his friends. More than likely, they would give those up out of excessive nobleness, and Potter would find some other way to press them on the hapless Gryffindors. Either way, they had nothing to do with Draco.

Potter was free of the marriage to Callia. Draco lifted his glass in a silent toast to Pansy.

Rettern was attacking Sandborn on the money front, and she was an extra line of defense and assurance that Draco and his friends would not be tried again.

Almost everything else that Potter had fought for concerned someone Draco didn't care about, or for gains that had already been spent. Draco read to the end of the list and leaned thoughtfully back on the couch.

There was one interesting omission from the list: Potter had never asked for anything like a house or extra money, and Sandborn had never pressed them on him in return for doing something for Potter. Draco permitted himself a smile as he imagined Sandborn trying, and Potter's undoubtedly furious reaction.

That meant Potter would more than likely be able to keep his house, his money in his vaults, and his personal possessions. As long as Sandborn didn't try to destroy them or take them away, of course, and having met the man in person once now and several times at a distance, Draco wouldn't put that past him.

But it also meant something else, something more personally significant for Draco. It meant that Potter wouldn't have tainted memories if Draco wanted to offer him certain gifts. Luxury foods, for example, or new clothes.

He was idly planning out what he would give Potter first, and the outraged, spluttering reaction he would probably get, and the ways around it, when his Floo flared. Draco rolled over and raised an eyebrow. Usually, no one would call him in the middle of the day. Potter was at work, his friends busy with their lives. If Draco wanted to see them, he had to go over to _their _houses and bother them.

Perhaps a sad commentary on the lack of busyness in his life, now that he thought about it.

Pansy's face appeared in the flames. She looked grim. "One of our Ministry contacts just said that Potter went to Sandborn's office a few minutes ago," she said, without pausing for pleasantries.

Draco rolled to his feet and reached for his cloak. It might mean nothing, or it might mean that Sandborn wanted to discuss a course of strategy with Potter that would give them valuable insights into what the man was thinking.

But either way, he wanted to be there.

* * *

"Shut the door behind you, Auror."

Harry did that, quietly. Sandborn's voice had taken on an unfamiliar tone. He wouldn't make such a simple request in such a loaded way, not least because it could reveal his mood, and Sandborn took pride in keeping that hidden. He had told Harry that if he could keep his enemies confused about what he really felt, they would have to remain wary.

Sandborn faced away from him, sitting in his chair with the back turned. Harry stopped five feet away from the desk, with plenty of room to fight or dodge if necessary, and waited.

"I discovered something today," Sandborn said.

Harry checked to make sure that his wand was free for a hand-drop and nodded. "Yes, sir?" he asked, when he realized that Sandborn wouldn't take the silence as a sign of assent and continue on his own.

"I discovered," Sandborn said, "that certain key documents were missing, documents related to the witnesses who would have testified against Draco Malfoy and others at their trials if they had gone ahead. And I discovered a second thing." He turned around, eyelids heavy. "I discovered the level of Potions mastery necessary to brew a potion like the one that affected me."

Harry held his tongue. At the moment, anything he could say would make things worse, either as an obvious lie or a useless statement of innocence.

Sandborn spent a few minutes watching him, as if he assumed the silence would make Harry crack. Harry just stood there. He didn't know yet how much Sandborn knew, or exactly how he would react. He would be an idiot if he let Sandborn intimidate him into showing more than he wanted to reveal, though.

At last, the Minister stood and came around his desk. He looked like he had the day Harry first brought the contract to him and asked him to agree to it: proud, haughty, and sorrowful that the rest of the world didn't listen to him and run the way he wanted it to run.

"You could have told me," he whispered, laying his hands on Harry's shoulders. "If you were tired of service to me, you could have said so."

"I did," Harry said, looking into his eyes and seeing nothing but sincere sorrow and weariness there. "I told you that I wanted you to retire in twelve years. And what I promised you, that I would marry Callia, is the biggest sacrifice I was capable of giving. That trade for Mr. Weasley's job was the last time that I would ever have asked you for anything. You must have sensed that."

Sandborn's hands tightened. Since Harry could duck out from under them and be on the other side of the room in seconds, he wasn't necessarily frightened at that, but he did keep a sharp eye out so that he would know when he had to move. "You didn't say so. If you implied it, it was not strongly enough for me to know it." Sandborn's voice dropped again, this time to something lower than a whisper. "You should have said so."

"I'm sure," Harry said, "that you wouldn't have wanted me to do it. You only think so now because you can see the consequences of letting me go."

Sandborn shook his head. "I am asking you to reconsider," he murmured, in a calm, quiet tone that Harry didn't trust. Of course, he had trusted little about Sandborn for years. "The consequences will be as severe for you as for me. Loss of political influence. Loss of affluence. Loss of the public's trust. Loss of your job. The wheels that I helped spin grinding to a halt. Are you really ready to lose all of that?"

Which was Sandborn's greasy way of threatening him. Harry took a long, slow breath. Then he twitched, and stepped away and free, so that he was once again standing five feet from the desk. Sandborn lowered his hands to his sides, watching Harry intently.

"If all you do is try to hurt me," Harry said, "then I don't have an objection. I broke the contract. I expect to suffer the loss of my job and public influence because of that. But if you hurt my friends or someone else in your frustration, then I'll interfere. I won't have a choice. Your grudge is against _me_, not them."

Sandborn looked as though he was in the grip of a passion, and also as though he wished he could make Harry feel it. His face was turning red, and he had clasped his hands behind his back, something he normally never did unless he wanted to hide how badly they were shaking. His voice came out so low and ugly that Harry was tempted to check over his shoulder to make sure that there was no one else hearing this who shouldn't have been. They didn't deserve to hear that tone from Sandborn's mouth.

"Your friends. Is that what you call the Slytherins who drove your bride away from you, who tried to convince you that I was your enemy, who are undoubtedly behind these efforts to incite Rettern to attack me?"

_Now that he knows about the removal of those documents, the whole house of cards is falling. _Either that, or Sandborn was making some shrewd guesses. Harry wouldn't let that rattle him into spilling more than Sandborn already knew, though. He met his gaze and said simply, "You're mistaken about the source of their influence over me and my relationship with them. But that doesn't matter. I've already told you the important thing, that I'm leaving your service. Or you stated it to me," he had to add, because in all honesty, that was what had happened. "Despite the consequences."

Sandborn closed his eyes, but not before Harry saw how deeply that wound struck into him. Well, he couldn't help that. Sandborn had always wanted to be more his friend than Harry thought appropriate between petitioner and politician.

Then Sandborn lunged at him.

Harry was already braced, and he was the better fighter in anything purely physical. He whirled to the side, then grabbed Sandborn's arm and threw him further along the path of his lunge, using his own momentum against him. Sandborn stumbled, groping for him and trying to pull him to the floor, but Harry smoothly ducked his grasp and came up to plant a foot in the back of his knee. Sandborn fell, the air that could have been used in a dangerous spell rushing out of his mouth in a _whoof. _Harry saw his hand scrambling for his wand, but he hadn't found it yet.

Harry drew his wand. He could _Obliviate _Sandborn, but he doubted it would help. There was too much that would change when Harry left his service, and the slightest suspicion that someone had blocked memories meant that he could dig them out from behind the block. Or a Healer could.

Besides, Harry could be fairly arrested and put in Azkaban for using a Memory Charm on the Minister. So far, he'd done nothing that Sandborn could seize him for without revealing his own part in the contract, only defending himself when Sandborn attacked.

_But I need to make sure that he's out of the game for at least a short time, so I can reach Malfoy and we can find out how this slip-up happened and discuss what to do._

That decided him on his action as well as giving him a convenient cover story. After all, it wasn't long ago that "someone" had used a potion against the Minister, and as far as most people knew, the result had been that he went to sleep and didn't wake up for a few days. Harry held his wand against Sandborn's temple and half-closed his eyes, breathing out, "_Somnium._"

The Minister shuddered, and he managed to turn his head so that he could look at Harry. Harry flinched a little from the betrayed look in his eyes, but it was nothing compared to what he had endured from Ron and Hermione. Then the magic took effect, and Sandborn's eyes fell shut, the lashes fluttering a little in the wind from his suddenly gusting breath.

Harry stood up and shut his eyes, arranging the details of the story in his mind. It had to be substantial enough to stand up to questions, but not so overloaded with details that someone could catch Harry in a lie.

Someone knocked on the Minister's door.

Harry walked over, feeling as though his step was springier than usual, full of possibilities. It would depend on who stood at the door: another Auror, a flunky, someone come for an appointment with Sandborn, or someone else. That would affect the shape of the story he told, but not its essential nature.

Some of the political instincts Sandborn had taught him could come in handy, he was finding, as long as he was using them in the service of fighting for his own freedom.

But when he opened the door, he ended up staring and standing still. In front of him was Malfoy, standing with his cloak slung over his arm as though he assumed Harry would need it wrapped around his shoulders for a brisk walk in the cold.

"Malfoy?" Harry asked, and then stared up and down the corridor, wondering why it wasn't already swarming with interested people. If one of Sandborn's clues had been the potion, Harry would have expected him to pass the message to arrest Malfoy on sight.

"Already handled him, have you?" Malfoy stepped past Harry and bent down to examine the sleeping Minister. He straightened up with a thin smile. "Ah, so the potion I brought won't be an essential part of the equation at all, but a useful distraction." He pulled a vial out of his pocket, uncorked it, and spoke a quiet spell that Vanished half the liquid, then tossed the vial down by Sandborn's hand.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Harry asked, since he was now over his surprise drying his mouth out.

Malfoy flashed him a bright smile. "You don't think that we're completely out of contacts in the Ministry, do you? They're just not as prevalent as they used to be. So we knew that you'd gone to him, and I came to perform a daring rescue." He considered Sandborn. "I reckon now I didn't need to." He turned his head to look at Harry again, and Harry found himself standing taller under that glance with no idea why. "It's good to know that you can be ruthless when you need to be."

Harry grimaced. "When someone attacks me, then I stop being nice."

Malfoy's eyes flared with a heat that went so deep Harry flinched back a little. "Really?" Malfoy was practically whispering. "I'll have to remember that."

"Don't get any ideas," Harry said, but Malfoy was looking at him with such amusement that he ended up giving that part of the conversation up as a lost cause. "What are we going to tell others?"

"That you found Sandborn abusing a potion." Malfoy nodded at the half-vanished vial that lay next to Sandborn's hand. "I've made sure that every trace of my magical signature is gone from this one," he added. "I'm sure that he grew suspicious of you because someone discovered _something_."

Harry nodded. "He said something about the level of potions skill visible in that potion that you left to turn into gas, and the fact that they had protections on the list of witnesses prepared to testify against you. He didn't seem to know who stole it, but he knew it was gone."

"That's _two _to hold over her head," Malfoy said, and then waved a hand grandly. "Ah, well. No matter. Of course one can't be expected to pay attention to all developments in magical theory at all times." He turned and glanced at Sandborn. "How many people heard him summon you?"

"He didn't summon me," Harry said. "A friend warned me that he was angry, and I went to him because I thought it best to get the confrontation over as soon as possible." He glanced down at Sandborn, and tried to feel some pity. It wasn't easy. "But depending on who she told, or who else overheard him ranting, others might know, too."

Malfoy nodded, face rigid. "Then there's nothing we can do about the rumors that might spread," he said. "But the sleep spell that you cast on Sandborn should keep him asleep for a few days, and the potion adds to the cover story. This will damage him more than it did you."

"Except for the people who might have seen me coming in here," Harry muttered, mind already trying to cover all the angles, from all the directions that he suspected someone like Malfoy would see the attack coming.

Malfoy shook his head wisely. "If they did see you, that just adds credibility to the story. He attacked you once before when he was having an allergic reaction to a potion, and then he slumped down into sleep the same way." He paused, and the rigid expression became an open, flowing one, alive with possibilities. "That might make this very easy to spin, in fact. If we can convince others that Sandborn is abusing potions, and that you're a convenient target..."

"Not everyone will believe that," Harry protested, thinking of the Ministry Potions masters. They had to be the ones who had told Sandborn that the potion that had affected him, Malfoy's potion, took a high level of skill to brew.

"But enough people to slow him down," Malfoy said. "And in the meantime, there are other stories we can spin." He looked pleased with himself.

"None of which deals with the problem of Sandborn's _actual knowledge,_" Harry pointed out. "He knows that that list is missing, and that you're the one who brewed that potion. Or, at least, he suspects it strongly. He only agreed not to prosecute you for your supposed crimes during the war, not for anything you may have done since then."

Malfoy gave him a lazy smile. "But what would happen if he tried to spread the story, and the Ministry Archives turned out to have the list back in place? What would happen if he tried to say something about the potion that turned to gas and how I must have left it, and I demonstrated that I didn't have the skill required to brew it?"

"More people would be on his side than yours," Harry said, but he hesitated. If someone had stolen the list in the first place using Harry's blood, he reckoned the same thief could put it back. And unless Sandborn placed Malfoy under Veritaserum, then he wouldn't have any absolute proof that Malfoy could really brew such a potion.

"At first," Malfoy said, looping his arm through Harry's. "And then when the news comes out that he attacked the Savior, people will desert his side in droves." He trailed a finger down the side of Harry's face. "He created, or helped you create, a reputation for being politically involved and on the right side during the last seven years. You might as well use it."

Harry hesitated a moment longer. "That power always depended on him," he said. "I don't know that I could use it without his support."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Of course you can. If you don't wait until he wakes up, but start spreading the rumors and giving the interviews right now, always with the caveat that you don't really intend to _hurt _Minister Sandborn, you just want people to know the truth is out there so they don't mistake you and think he did something worse than he actually did."

Harry shook his head in spite of himself. "You're devious, you know that?"

"_Only _devious?" Malfoy pressed his hand to his heart and fluttered his eyelashes.

"And clever," Harry said, and gave in to the temptation to kiss him.

Malfoy would have hung on and deepened the kiss, but Harry broke free and turned to the office door. "Let's go."

Malfoy followed him, and when Harry glanced back, he looked like he was walking on air. Harry shook his head in amusement. _He really thinks that he can walk like that just from kissing me? _

A stray thought crept into his head, sent down roots, and grew.

_Maybe he does._


	26. Miles in the Distance of Time

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Six-Miles in the Distance of Time_

"Thanks."

Potter's words were a bit baffled, wary, but at the same time heartfelt. Or at least Draco thought so, as he watched Potter press the glass of Firewhisky against his forehead. He'd drunk half of it straight off, without a flinch. Draco had been torn between disgust that he didn't appreciate the quality of it more and admiration that he could do such a thing. No doubt Ministry banquets had inured him to it.

And there came the emotions that he wouldn't have expected to feel under _any _circumstances, the pity that it had been so and the consuming curiosity as to why Potter had let the contract go on for so long. Perhaps Pansy and Daphne were on to something when they said this was different from his previous infatuations for the sake of sex, after all.

"You're welcome." Draco curled his legs elegantly beneath him on the couch and leaned forwards. "Right now, Potter, there's something I'd like you to tell me. If you feel up to it, of course."

"What?" Potter's face reflected a tempered caution now as he took another sip. His face changed. "This is good, and I was tossing it down my throat like it was a Muggle product, wasn't I? Shit, I'm sorry."

Draco's admiration rose a notch, but he shrugged as if it were of no great consequence. "Why the contract?"

"What?" Potter blinked again. He really did look better without those awful glasses, Draco thought, but he could understand why Potter had kept them. They added to the charm and the feeling that someone who wanted to capture Potter's attention was talking to the iconic hero instead of someone only pretending to be him. Of course, anyone who had spoken to Potter in most of the past decade _was _talking to a facade, but most people wouldn't know and wouldn't care about the difference. "But I told you the story of why I thought it was a good idea."

"Not that," Draco said, although perhaps he had meant that, because now Potter had said those words, he found himself unsure what he _had _meant. He spent a few moments sipping Firewhisky and thinking about it, while Potter watched him, his eyes hidden in the shade of his fringe. Draco finally snapped his fingers, pleased that he had been able to think of a way to phrase it. "I want to know why you didn't make an effort to get free when it started depressing you and you hated the way you lived."

"But you know that, too," Potter said. "You know that I was too deeply involved to break free. And I'd already spent years lying so that my friends could have nice things. They would hate me whether they found out then or ten years from then, I reasoned, so I might as well go on lying."

"That is pathetic," Draco said softly.

"Yes, it was," Potter said, and finished the Firewhisky with another tossed gulp, ignoring Draco's wince this time. Draco frowned. That wasn't a good sign; probably Potter was getting into the sort of mood he did when he was at those Ministry banquets. "But it was the only move which made sense to me at the time. And...to be honest, it took you to show me why I was wrong. Until then, I was the only one who was unhappy. Sandborn was all too happy to have a pet Auror dancing attendance at his side. My friends had most of what they wanted, and some things they might not have been able to get otherwise. Callia knew what she was getting out of marriage with me-no passion-and that satisfied her. Why change things?"

"Because..." Draco had wanted this, this exposure of a mindset that was utterly foreign to him, and it didn't satisfy him as much as he had thought it might. He again waited and thought about his words, while Potter waited and watched. Another house-elf appeared beside Potter, bowing as it held out the glass of Firewhisky. Potter showed no hesitation in accepting it.

"Because," Draco said at last, "one person being unhappy is enough reason to want to change things."

Potter eyed him wryly. "If that was so, then I think you would have still insisted that I get out of my situation on my own, since I was the one who put myself there. Why should it matter to you? I wasn't your friend. I wasn't your lover-then," he added, after a pause that weighed like an oncoming thunderstorm on Draco's mind.

"The debt," Draco said.

Potter nodded. "Yes. All right. But-I have to ask. If there was no debt between us, if the contract had only covered my friends and you'd got free some other way, then would you have the felt the necessity to rescue me?"

Draco shook his head. "No."

Instead of irritating Potter as he'd expected, his answer made the git relax, leaning back in his chair and taking a smaller swallow of his drink this time. "Then I can understand, and trust, you on a level that I can't with my friends," he said simply. "I spent so much time lying to them that they can't trust me, and I wouldn't want them to. And I don't know who I am with them, anymore. I know who I am to you because we're both on the same level of understanding."

Draco stared at him, amused and annoyed at the same time. "A Slytherin who lives a happy life is like a broken-down Gryffindor just released from a life that made him miserable?"

"I know what you want," Potter said. "I know what kind of person I want to be around you, and the kind it's okay to be around you. Like I said, I don't know that with my friends, not yet. I hope I'll learn," he added softly. "But it might not be possible, and if it's not possible, I won't spend the rest of my life weeping and wailing about it." He took another drink.

Draco sat there blinking. It was the kind of honesty he praised in himself, but refracted back at him from some strange lens in Potter's soul.

"I don't think you could have a casual relationship if you tried, Potter," he said, because that was the only immediate practical application he could think of for the man's words.

Potter chuckled, though, and toasted him with his drink. "I could try," he said. "But you're right, it would probably end in heartbreak. What's more important is that I know you rescued me because of the debt, so I didn't start out with any romantic delusions. And you helped me because of the debt, so you weren't expecting me to slobber gratitude all over your feet."

"What a disgusting idea," Draco said, honestly appalled that Potter's imagination could travel in directions like that. "When I want you to touch me that way, Potter, I'll have you _kiss _my feet. Not slobber on them."

A reckless spark lit Potter's eyes, and he put the Firewhisky aside and sat up. "You're still the same demanding little shit as always," he said, as if he was merely making an observation. "Should I show you the way _I'd _do it?"

"I don't need to know what you and your fiancée got up to in your free time," Draco said, but he couldn't hide either the way his spine shuddered or his voice grew richer.

Potter merely smiled at him, deep and quiet, and stood up so that he could saunter over to Draco. He stood over Draco's chair, staring down. Draco stared back up at him, his heart pounding so hard that it nearly drove all thoughts of wit out of his head.

"As it happened," Potter murmured, meeting him eye-to-eye and not looking away, "this is something that I never did for Callia. I think she would have been appalled, yes. Passion was anathema to her. But you..." He slid gracefully to his knees, and then reached out and caught one of Draco's shoes in his hands, pulling it off.

Draco didn't have the words to make Potter stop or continue, and he wasn't sure which one he would have wanted more anyway. But he sat there, staring, silent, fascinated, and Potter's smile tilted up more and more at the edges, became stranger and stranger. By now, he had Draco's shoes off and was staring at his feet as if wondering whether he had the courage to go through with what he'd started. Draco finally found the words to whisper, "Do you know what you're doing?"

"No," Potter said frankly, looking up at him. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No." Draco was still fascinated. Odd as this was, he wanted to watch it play out. He'd been able to predict most of what Potter did, whether he was in self-pity mode or slowly waking back into his fire. This was the first time Potter had leaped away from the neat rails that Draco had laid out in his mind, and he _had _to know what would happen next.

Potter smiled and ran his fingers up the soles of Draco's feet. Draco felt his back arching without conscious input from his mind. His breath was getting shorter, and Potter's touch stayed just shy of tickling. Potter locked his fingers together and slid them smoothly from heel to toe of one of Draco's feet, then the other. "Thank you," he whispered.

Then he bent down and kissed the top of the left foot, followed by the right. In each case, he pressed his lips down hard enough that Draco thought he could feel the thrumming of it in his bones.

"That's, that's," Draco said, as Potter sat back on his heels and stared up at him. "I don't know what to call that."

Potter smiled slyly at him. "Glad that one thing can make you speechless, at least."

* * *

Harry looked at himself critically in the mirror, then stepped back so that he could see the robes better. They were his usual Auror robes, but with added charms that would make them seem to sparkle and shine in the light of any cameras aimed at him. Harry had never used such spells before-why should he, when his name and his deal with Sandborn already guaranteed that he was the center of every gaze at public functions?-and he was dubious about them.

"You'll do fine, dear."

Harry drew his wand, then realized the voice had come from the mirror. He relaxed with a weak snort. "Of course that ponce would have enchanted mirrors to tell him when he looks good," he muttered.

"Oh, no, he always hushes me," the mirror assured him, sounding in deadly earnest. "You wouldn't believe the type of rubbish he prefers in terms of compliments! Why, some of the things his last girlfriend told him were _criminal. _I'm glad that she's gone now." The mirror's voice turned sly. "I much prefer you, you see. I always did admire that contrast of the dark and the light coloring."

Harry blinked, trying frantically to remember if he'd kissed Malfoy's feet in a room with a mirror. He didn't think so, but there were so many decorations in the bloody place, it was a wonder that a dozen reflections didn't follow Malfoy around constantly.

"Don't get used to it," he mumbled at last. "I probably won't stay that long."

"Really?" The mirror sounded disappointed in the same way that children tended to be when Harry wouldn't cast a binding spell on one of them. "But you're so good for him! So bold in your coloration, and you make his pulse beat faster and his face flush, did you know? The way his eyes follow you around, I think he might have found someone to give him the proper way to relax at last." The mirror tilted a little in its frame, towards Harry, and its voice lowered to a whisper. "Of course I admire the way he looks, and I say all the proper things, but frankly, he needs to spend less time preening and more time putting those good looks to use!"

"Didn't anybody ever teach you not to pay attention to magical mirrors, Potter?" Malfoy asked, sailing in through the doorway of the bedroom he'd lent Harry as if it was his-which it was, technically, Harry had to admit. "Always concerned with the way things look, never the way things _are._"

The mirror sniffed, and Harry wondered crazily for a moment what Mr. Weasley would say about magical objects that kept their noses where you couldn't see them. "You're just jealous that you didn't get to see him naked as much as I did."

Malfoy gave a lazy smile at the room in general, so Harry couldn't be sure who he was including in it, the mirror or Harry, and reached out as if he would lay a hand on the collar of Harry's robes. "That could be remedied," he all but whispered.

Harry danced away like a nervous horse, and knew he was acting ridiculous from the way Malfoy's eyes followed him, and tried not to care. "You need to give me a minute or two to get back into the mood to talk to the press," he whispered harshly. "I'm not used to letting my third soul take care of things like this."

Malfoy looked at him, inviting an explanation with no more than the tilt of his head and the lift of an eyebrow. In some ways, Harry hated that he'd become so adept at reading the bastard. It made him feel too relaxed.

"Look," Harry said. "I had to teach myself to behave in certain ways around Sandborn and other people. The first soul. The second soul was for my friends, and the third soul was just for myself. That was the one I used to laugh and think all the sarcastic thoughts I didn't dare have around Sandborn, just in case I slipped up and said them aloud. But you can't make me laugh like this, or splutter like this, right before I go to meet members of the press. That makes it likely that I'll slip up around _them_, too."

Malfoy spent enough time standing there and staring at him that Harry thought he would have to slip past him out of the room and take on the press conference himself. Then Malfoy reached out and straightened a minor wrinkle in Harry's robes that surely would have escaped his attention. His eyes were intense.

"You can do this," he said. "I believe you can. And I believe that you'll be better at it with access to all the facets of your personality, your sense of humor and your fire and your exasperation and all."

Harry shook his head. "It's only one part of me that can act well. I need to shut the rest away."

Malfoy's hand came to rest lightly on his arm, as inarguable as an iron bar. "You _did_," he said. "That doesn't mean you need to do it now. And I'm going to show you. Come with me. I'll fill in the holes that you're worried about leaving. I'll be your guard and your defense, the one you can trust your back to."

Harry grimaced. "No one's going to believe that you've become my lover and trusted confidant that fast."

"I'll make them believe it," Malfoy said earnestly. "I'm very good at that."

Harry looked doubtfully at him.

"He is, you know," the mirror said. "I've watched him charm the feathers off an owl."

Malfoy beamed.

"Weren't you the one who just got through telling me never to trust magical mirrors?" Harry muttered.

Malfoy shook his head. "Sometimes your having a sense of yourself instead of being the perfect political automaton can be...inconvenient," he said, but his smile never wavered. "Will you trust me or not?"

Harry hesitated. He still sometimes felt that he didn't know what Malfoy wanted, other than to be a pain in the arse. But the man had risked and suffered and sacrificed for him (although perhaps the suffering hadn't been very deep), and it was true that he hadn't betrayed him yet. Harry suspected the thought would never occur to him unless Harry betrayed him first or until the debt was paid.

_Will it ever be paid? _

Harry had no idea. This had begun with the debt, it hadn't stayed there, and he didn't think he could name the place where it had ended up yet.

"Yes," he said. "For this, I'll trust you to convince people if I falter."

Malfoy looked at him with a half-jaundiced expression that a smile kept fighting its way from under. "So sure that you can make a good political speech on your own?" he murmured. "As I understood it, Sandborn wrote most of your speeches."

Harry gave him a small, hard smile. "Not all," he said. "Although the majority, that's true. And-there are things that I never thought about at the time, because I treated it as the normal business of politics. Perhaps it is. But brought out and revealed to the open morning light, it's going to seem much darker."

"Like a stone that changes colors depending on whether it's wet or not," Malfoy said approvingly, which just proved that Harry was never going to be able to keep up with the jackrabbit jumps of his mind. "All right. What are you going to say?"

"You're just going to have to wait to hear like the rest of them," Harry said, and swept haughtily out in front of him.

The magic mirror snickered and said something about "a suitable partner." Harry could hear Malfoy casting a charm of some sort that was probably meant to hush it, and hid a smile in his sleeve, so that he was walking along like a solemn old man by the time that Malfoy caught up with him.

Malfoy was bringing out a new side of him. Harry didn't know where it was going to end up any more than he knew where their relationship would. Kissing Malfoy's feet last night had been unanticipated; thinking about it made him want to blush.

But it was different, it was new, it was changing, and none of those were words that he could have applied to his state under the contract.

* * *

They had called the press conference outside the gates of Malfoy Manor; there was no way that Draco was going to have these people trampling his roses and getting hung up on the fact that he had a few man-eating plants in his gardens. They were valuable, and the endless appeals for him to get rid of them if they ate someone would simply be too tiresome to endure.

Potter stepped out looking regal. The robes he had chosen, although they were ordinary for the most part, enhanced his appearance, Draco had to admit. The mirror had been right. (Not that he would ever tell the conceited object that. Even the Silencing Charm he'd cast had perhaps been an overreaction, letting it know that it had spoken truths he didn't care to hear).

The reporters fell expectantly silent when Potter held up a hand. Draco was sure that he was the only one standing near enough to hear Potter's slow, rattling intake of breath. The confident pose was only that. He didn't have the might of the Ministry backing him up anymore, and he was going to war against Sandborn.

But the moment passed, and Potter said, "I come here today to confess to you what kind of person I am, and what kind of person your Minister really is."

Draco slewed his head around and stared at Potter. _Is he going to tell them about the contract? That's going to mess everything up-_

Potter half-shook his head, a brief motion that Draco barely caught, and plunged ahead. "You think that I play the game of politics," he told the reporters. "The _moral _game of politics. You think I never bribed anyone, that I acquired my victories simply by wit and charm, and that I never aided the Minister in threatening anyone." He paused, in a silence so deep Draco could hear the faint, shrill trumpeting of one of his peacocks from back in the garden. "Well, I did."

The reporters pressed forwards, but they seemed so enchanted with the story Potter was telling that they didn't say anything for a long moment. Potter took advantage of the silence, speaking with calm, measured words.

The tale he spun was one that was undoubtedly true, although it wasn't one Draco would have pictured him choosing, because it made him look as bad as it did Sandborn. There had been bribes to Wizengamot members, though sometimes the bribe was nothing more than Potter going over to their homes for a dinner or making himself look like a friend for the sake of a skeptical visitor. There were threats laid out more or less subtly against the Heads of Departments in the Ministry who had disagreed with Sandborn. Draco had been aware that Head Aurors had a tendency to change frequently in the first few years of Sandborn's term, but he hadn't known the reason.

Potter had been complicit in that. He admitted it, and that he had been Sandborn's tool in other, more minor things, too: snubbing someone at a Ministry party to let them know of the Minister's displeasure; refusing invitations or accepting them in a random pattern to keep Sandborn's political opponents rattled and off-balance; cutting off investigations that might have revealed the extent of the corruption in the ranks of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He looked sad as he admitted it, resigned, but there was a creeping relief under the other emotions, too, that Draco thought he was the only one privileged to see.

As far as Draco could tell, he answered all the questions the reporters put to him honestly, except why he had gone along with all this. His response to that one was that he'd been tired of political fighting he didn't have the instincts for, and that Sandborn had persuaded him it wasn't so bad.

To Draco, it _wasn't _so bad, the sort of things politicians did all the time. But Sandborn's problem was that he had set himself up as the sort of Minister who was uncompromisingly honest and listened to everyone's side, helped by his star Auror. He had tamed Potter to fit into the Ministry, and Potter had helped by making Sandborn a politician you could trust.

This exposé wouldn't have damaged Sandborn if he hadn't chosen to stake everything on Potter's reputation.

And for that, Draco doubted anyone could forgive him.

The questions wound to a halt at last, the reporters standing there and blinking like overstuffed children. Then they began to steal off, all too transparently wanting to be the first ones to write their stories down. Draco watched them go with some amusement, and turned around to find Potter was leaning against the gates, shaking his head.

"That's torn it," he said softly.

"You weren't still hoping you could go back to the status quo, were you?" Draco asked. He felt disgust turning the inside of his mouth sour, and he _hated _that. He would have to have more good Firewhisky to wash it away.

"No," Potter said. "But I didn't set my bridges on fire until now." He stretched his arms above his head and lowered them back to his side. "The world burning by them looks bright, actually," he said, sounding surprised.

Draco moved in and kissed him, because he couldn't not. Potter turned his head and gaped at him in surprise at first, then yielded and kissed back. Draco lifted a hand to the back of his neck and grasped it, hard, yanking him towards the Manor.

A distant camera flash made them pull apart. Potter shook his head at the reporter who'd photographed them and glanced at Draco. "Well, that's torn it in a different way. Do you mind?"

Draco licked his lips. The inside of his mouth tasted sweet now. "No," he said, and proceeded to show Potter how very much he didn't.


	27. The Time of the Shedding of the Skin

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Seven-The Time of the Shedding of the Skin_

Harry sat on his bed-"his" bed-in the room that Malfoy had lent him and closed his eyes. The Silencing Charms that Malfoy had cast on the magic mirror still held, and Malfoy had taken one look at him after they'd come inside from the report to the press and said that he wouldn't disturb him for a while, so he could count on being alone.

It was over.

He had dirtied himself for no reason, in the end, since his friends might give up what he had gained for them and the stories the reporters wrote would destroy most of the reputation Sandborn had left along with Harry's. But it still felt wonderful. He had reached into his heart and pulled out everything that had bothered him over the years or that should have bothered him, the thoughts that had ached in his third soul, the actions he had taken that were far from noble. He had exposed them to the world's sight now, and they would be judged by that sight, for good or ill.

He knew it would make a lot of people think of him differently. He'd probably suffer from it.

But there were some things no one could take from him. His home, which he owned outright. Some of his money, since the Ministry generally only seized Gringotts vaults as compensation for war crimes (although Harry had to accept that he'd probably lose a lot of Galleons as legal fees). His resolve to do something good and new with the rest of his life, since he wasn't about to be drawn back into politics again.

_That doesn't tell you what you _should _do._

Harry shrugged a little. He was all right with not having a plan for the rest of his life. The attempt to make one, and let the contract control everything from his marriage to his career, had been a scared little boy's plan, and one that had interfered with the freedom and decisions of other people in a way he'd had no right to try. He could hope that the next phase of his life would turn out differently, in a way.

He had no idea when his thoughts passed into quietly-breathing sleep as he lay there on the bed, but at some point, they did.

* * *

Daphne paused and eyed the doors to the Archive with a smile. They had improved their defensive wards. This time, a dog made out of silvery smoke stalked back and forth before the doors, with immense dignity. She could imagine that it was intended to rush out and bite anyone who disturbed its track.

She cast a spell and nodded in approval. Yes, it was meant to react even to the imposition of a stranger's magical signature in the form of any charm that might send it to sleep, or anyone who approached without an escort from a wizard it knew. The Ministry had become cleverer and warier.

Too bad for them that she was better.

She retreated a short distance down the corridor and cast a small alarm spell of her own, one that manifested as a golden Siamese cat which scampered up the wall and watched behind her. Then she took a flask of oil out of her cloak and sniffed it gingerly. Yes, it still smelled like crushed peppermint, so strongly that she flinched back from it before she could stop herself.

Out came a small brazier, and a handful of white powder that she'd paid dearly for in Italy. She scattered the white powder into a cup that waited over the brazier, and then dumped the oil in. It bubbled fiercely in seconds, the white powder grains tumbling and rising and rolling, clinging to the oil as though they were eating them. They were, in a way. Daphne glanced up at her cat and then down the corridor at the dog, still relentlessly patrolling, and squatted on her haunches. Really, waiting without something to study was the most tedious portion of her job.

At last the mixture in the brazier stopped bubbling, and more or less circled there, a smoke as thin as the smoke that made the dog. Daphne smiled and flicked her wand. The smoke flew up and surrounded her head in a corona. She directed it down the corridor towards the dog with another flick.

Of course, normal peppermint was unlikely to affect a magical guardian. But the powder Daphne had paid for-which its maker claimed came from boiled vampire bones-changed normal oil into its spiritual essence.

As she watched, the smoke slid into the guardian dog's nostrils, and it leaped straight off the ground. Then it began to shake its head and sneeze, but the smoke clung stubbornly to it, no more prone to disappearing than a normal scent would be because someone sneezed. The dog whimpered, whined, and lifted one insubstantial paw to slide over its nose. Daphne smiled, and thought she heard the cat she'd cast laughing behind her.

The dog rolled on the floor, buried its nose in the carpets, leaped up and down, and rammed its head into the wall in an attempt to get rid of the peppermint. Finally, it fled down the corridor, whimpering. Daphne suspected that it would either fade out of existence when it left its post or go and find its caster in an attempt to make him deal with the problem.

Meanwhile, she walked casually over the doors and got through them the way she had once before, pausing only to charm the cat out of existence and pack up the brazier and the empty oil flask.

The Ministry Archives could still use a good dusting, Daphne thought critically as she made her way towards the aisle where she'd got that list of witnesses. And they could use a good picking-over by someone like her, who would reassure the anxious custodians how many of their contents were actually valuable.

With an effort, she restrained her fingers. She had given herself away somehow last time, so that they had noted the list was gone. She owed it to Draco-and to her own professional pride, much the more important thing-to get in and out this time with no mistakes, and make the Minister seem lying or delusional, or both at once, when he claimed that such an important document was gone.

This time, she used another freely-given drop of Potter's blood, but the protections around the array of scrolls stayed intact. Daphne leaned back and looked thoughtfully at them, drumming one hand against her leg.

Then she smiled. _Of course. That would appeal to them, to reverse the protections. Never underestimate the attraction of symbolic thinking._

She had come prepared with other drops of blood, partially because she had thought the wards might have been changed and partially because that was what she always did. She took out a vial now that she carefully extracted the blood from, waiting until it fell onto the dish she held even though it took long minutes to inch out of the crystal. One didn't tamper with unicorn blood that carried no curse, it was so expensive and difficult to obtain.

Once the drop lay there, shimmering and silvery, Daphne pricked her finger and crossed it with a drop of her own.

The wards hissed and vanished. Daphne nodded. The Ministry had used Potter's blood last time, thinking he was such an enemy of the accused Death Eaters he must be their complete opposite, but when that didn't work, it made sense that they would have turned to a ward that couldn't be dissipated except by the blood of a complete innocent.

_Except that even the friends of complete innocents get desperate for money._

She placed the scroll she'd originally stolen back in place and spent a few more leisurely hours looking around the Archives. The guardian dog spirit hadn't managed to find anyone to free it from the peppermint oil, not surprising since it was the middle of the night.

And though she'd had to do this since she had made the mistake in the first place, there was no reason not to pick up as much extra payment as possible.

* * *

Draco sat in front of his fire in the largest bedroom and glanced down, now and then, at the sleeves of his bright green robe. They looked exactly as they always had-shone exactly as they always had, since they were bright with golden embroidery. There was nothing new about them, no reason that he should feel foreign in his own body.

He came back, soon enough, to the thought he had been avoiding. It was Potter who made him feel foreign in his body, not his clothes or even the comments the magical mirror had made that morning, before Draco hushed it.

Potter was changing, moving on in a new direction that could easily leave Draco behind, if he was stupid enough to let that happen.

He didn't want to be. But he also didn't want to go crawling after Potter on his hands and knees. He had given as much as he had to repay the debt and to reawaken Potter from the soulless state he had drifted into, and that was right and proper. But to give so much more...to ask Potter to stay with him, or be his lover...

Draco shook his head and stood up with a snap, determining that he was going to go change out of these robes and into some that were more flattering. Then he would read for a time, or get on his broom and play Quidditch, or call up Pansy and torment her.

Anything but stay here and brood over a man that he was increasingly coming to suspect he couldn't have.

* * *

Harry woke shortly after noon, and stifled his yawn before he remembered that there was no one else in the room with him to be offended. He probably wasn't going to have that many public appearances in the near future, either. He could spill food on his robes and yawn openly and sprawl in chairs instead of sitting up neatly if that was what he wanted to do.

He smiled only long enough for some of the thoughts that he'd had before he slept to come back to him. What _would _he do now? So he didn't have an immediate plan for his future, and could live with that; he still had to do something other than sit around in his house and wait for the reporters to lay siege.

Well, first he could go find Malfoy and see about getting something to eat. Harry shed his Auror robes, removed the attention-attracting charms, and wandered out into the main corridors of Malfoy Manor.

They were confusing enough that he at last called a house-elf to guide him, hoping it would take him to the kitchen or the dining room.

Instead, the house-elf led him out into the gardens. Harry had so far only seen them from the house, and hadn't realized that the back part of them was a private Quidditch pitch. Malfoy was speeding along on his broom above it, pivoting and diving with the skill of a trained Seeker. Harry found himself halting and his mouth going dry in admiration.

That had _not _been part of what he wanted to do.

Malfoy had two Bludgers whirring through the air after him, apparently bouncing off the Keeper's hoop and three strategically planted trees the way they ordinarily would off Beaters' bats. The Quaffle also bounced up and down distractingly in the background, and now and then crossed his path as if its life's mission was to put him off the chase.

Malfoy never faltered. His eyes stayed locked on the Snitch, no more than a tiny gleam of gold from this distance even to Harry's charmed sight, and he zipped and ducked and flew down and circled in perfect time. He held it up in less than two minutes from the time the elf had led Harry outside and whipped back around, waving the Snitch above his head and bowing to an imaginary cheering crowd.

Harry had to smile. Even when he thought he was alone, Malfoy was flamboyant and obviously played to the public. Well, maybe that was simply what he was really like. Once again, Harry couldn't fault his honesty.

Malfoy saw him and smiled, or Harry thought he did; if he couldn't actually see the Snitch from this distance, he wasn't about to trust other things that his eyes were telling him. He arrowed his broom towards Harry and landed neatly on the grass in front of him. Harry blinked. He knew that one minute Malfoy had been above him and the next he was in front, but that had been too fast for his eyes to follow.

_ Probably a good thing. That means that I didn't have the chance to lash out at him because of those stupid Auror instincts._

"Pretty good, huh?" Malfoy opened his hand and then caught the Snitch with the other before it could flutter away. "Though not my fastest time ever. I think I only achieve those when I'm playing with an opponent." He cast Harry a sly glance, so the words were probably meant to evoke the memories that they did.

"I didn't know you still played." Harry leaned closer, and tried to pretend it was for some other reason than a chance to breathe the familiar scents of sweat and leather. Malfoy's smile became a bit more private, and he turned to the side, staring at the Snitch as if it was the one who'd asked him the question.

Or implied question. Harry didn't think he'd actually asked one. Then again, his head was getting a little hazy, standing this close to a relaxed Malfoy and in the increasing realization that he really was free.

"I do it with Blaise sometimes, and Theo, and Pansy," Malfoy said. "Like I said, I don't think I can keep my hand in unless I have an opponent."

Harry shuddered, not at all theatrically. "I'd be scared to play Parkinson," he said. "If she's half as clever with the Beater's bat as she is with her words, at any rate. Or does she play Chaser?" He couldn't imagine Malfoy joining in a game with someone else who played Seeker.

_At least, not someone who isn't me. _

Harry paused. _And what a weird time to feel possessive of _Malfoy, _of all people._

"Beater," Malfoy said. "At heart, Pansy is a simple soul. She likes to hit things. She just varies her weapon with her choice of target, that's all."

Harry smiled and then ducked as one of the Bludgers came down behind him. The other balls landed not far away, and Malfoy nodded and waved his wand to summon forth a trunk with places for them, much like the one Madam Hooch had had in Hogwarts. Harry hesitated, then moved to help him. He reached out to take the Snitch, and found Malfoy watching him with a faint smile, his fingers still locked on the madly fluttering wings.

"You still can't wait to take the Snitch from me," Malfoy said. "I'm glad to see that aspect of you didn't change, even though so much else about you is different from the time I knew you first. I'd hate to think that my old enemy was gone forever." His hand came to rest on the back of Harry's neck, casually imperious.

"That's not all I can't wait to take from you," Harry said, ignoring his rapid heartbeat while trying to remind himself that it was _all right_, and he was allowed to make mistakes, and that even if this didn't work out it was still something he wanted to do, which made it different from the contract, and leaned forwards.

Malfoy remained in place this time, blinking as if he was unclear on the concept or didn't believe Harry would really do it. Harry showed him. He linked his hands together behind Malfoy's neck and tugged him into the kiss.

_Then _the bastard was enthusiastic enough, opening his mouth with a moan as if he thought that Harry wouldn't learn without the right instruction, and rubbing against Harry's leg hard enough to topple them both over. Harry went, sprawling in the short, soft grass of the Quidditch pitch, absurdly happy to be where he was and doing what he was doing, right now.

Malfoy reared above him, licked saliva from the corner of his mouth, and dived right back in. Harry felt gloved hands running under his shirt and stopped only long enough to tug the gloves off. Then he shuddered, because Malfoy's hands were still chilled from the air of the heights he'd flown at, gloves or not.

Malfoy laughed into his ear. "Time to see what you're made of," he said, and tweaked a nipple hard enough to make Harry jolt.

Harry hardly remembered how they'd got their clothes off; it was full of laughter and Malfoy telling him jokes that weren't funny-except that he was laughing, so at least some of them must have been-and unexpected places on his body firing to life as Malfoy touched them. He'd done well enough not expressing passion for Callia and not cheating on her for years, so Harry was a little surprised about the excitement that flooded him, made him ache, made him reach for Malfoy and keep snogging him to the point that it was hard for him to do anything else.

But perhaps his body remembered it the same way he could remember the Quidditch moves despite not having played in years. And perhaps it was just Malfoy.

Malfoy grinned at him and held up a tube of lube that he'd got who knew where. Harry wondered if he'd been carrying it in his pocket against this chance, and would have been upset, but he was smiling too much for that.

"How do you want to do this?" Malfoy bent down, breathless, and kissed Harry's cheek. "I could fuck you, or you could fuck me, or I could suck you..."

"For the first time, let me fuck you," Harry said, clenching his teeth against a longing that threatened to sweep him away like a flood.

Malfoy grinned and nodded, as if impressed that he could actually say the word, and reached casually behind himself, fingers coated, to probe into his arse. Harry realized that he was holding his breath as he watched and released it with an explosive grunt.

"Don't die of suffocation before we get to the best part," Malfoy said, and then paused, a thoughtful expression on his face, getting only a little strained as his fingers worked inside himself. "Well, the best part for you. Whether it's going to be the best one for _me _depends on how skillful you are with that wand of yours."

Harry rolled his eyes and started to say something about how anyone who could make a wand joke at this stage in the game was too immature to have sex with him, but then Malfoy reached out and rubbed his fingers gently up and down Harry's own cock, and all his breath left him in a grunt again.

Malfoy grinned at him. "Ah, you're very expressive," he said, and lined himself up, while Harry lay on his back and stared at him with a dazed expression. "I enjoy that in a lover. I wonder if you'll say anything else when you're done, or if I'll have to guess from the particular way that you moan." Then he let himself drop straight down before Harry could say anything, including "Are you sure you want to do this?" or "I thought _you _were supposed to be the one lying on your back."

Harry arched up as he felt the tight squeeze, the almost painful slide, of his cock into Malfoy's body. Malfoy paused above him and shook his head. "What did I say about dying of suffocation?" he asked, and gave the side of Harry's face a little slap.

Harry grunted and gasped and finally managed to work his eyes open. "You-you can start now, I reckon," he whispered shakily.

"I thought you'd never say," Malfoy said. He was rocking back and forth, sometimes bracing his hands on Harry's shoulders, sometimes on his chest. Harry thought he was enjoying himself, but that particular brightness on his face made it hard to tell. It was the same brightness that he used when making fun of someone, Harry thought. "And you can fuck back, you know."

Harry shuddered as the word seemed to strike him somewhere under the breastbone. He was _fucking _Malfoy. He was _having sex _with Malfoy. Well, technically he already had, but this felt as if it counted more, somehow.

He began to thrust up, and Malfoy laughed at him, a welcoming laugh, not a mocking one, and Harry began to get lost in thoughts that consisted of little more than "hot" and "tight" and the small noises that emerged from Malfoy's mouth and the brilliance of his eyes, and there was little more than that.

* * *

As Draco had suspected, Potter was actually a good fuck once you worked past the layers of self-blame and self-denial and self-sacrifice.

Of course, as Pansy would probably say, why would you want to put in all that _effort? _But Pansy wasn't the one feeling the way that Potter plowed into him, or the fire that was fully there, sparking in Potter's eyes.

Or the helpless little way that his hands groped for Draco's hips. Draco liked that.

Potter began to pant as his climax drew closer-or at least Draco hoped it was drawing closer, because he really was annoyingly non-verbal and Draco's hips were getting tired. He rose up a little, wriggled himself closer to Potter, and then came down again.

And _that _time, Potter finally hit his prostate. Draco arched his neck, hissing, and began to ride Potter in earnest. Potter was finally crying out, too, miracle of miracles; the way he snapped his neck back and worked his hips as though he would fuck Draco right off him and onto the grass was particularly gratifying.

Harry-Draco should call someone he permitted into his body by his first name, probably-came with a great shout and a splatter of wetness inside Draco that made Draco feel as if he would fall off the bastard's cock. Draco bowed his head, clenched his inner muscles, and came hard enough to make the world spin around him. He fell off and sprawled beside Potter immediately, because he had never liked the sensation of a softening cock stuck inside him. His body hummed with pleasure, and he closed his eyes and hummed aloud in response, running a hand lazily over Potter's chest.

Potter-Harry-caught his hand. Draco opened his eyes and looked at him. Harry was appropriately dazed.

"I thought it wouldn't be that strong," he said at last, and then stopped and swallowed. Draco waited patiently, stroking his nipples and throat.

"What are we doing?" Harry asked helplessly. "Now that I'm free, and Sandborn's falling, and your debt's repaid...what's next?"

"More fucking," Draco said at once, hoping, again, that Pansy and Daphne weren't right. He would hate to fall in love with someone this stupid. "And then figuring out what comes next. I don't know. Does it have to be more than that? Do you have to have your future planned out for you the way your past was?"

A slow smile worked its way over Harry's face, and he began to shake his head. "No," he whispered, and bent down to kiss Draco, which made him breathless. "No, I don't. You're absolutely right."

The kiss got more intense, and by the time that they were fucking again, Harry rearing above him and buried between his thighs this time, Draco was satisfied that he had chosen a partner of at least moderate intelligence after all.


	28. Clock Counting Down

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Eight-Clock Counting Down_

"Potter!"

The loud, rude shout woke Harry the next morning. He blinked and shook his head, leaning back on the pillow for long moments until he figured out what was happening and where he was. He'd fallen asleep in Draco's bedroom, yes, he remembered that, but they'd fucked for a long time before that.

Besides, the shout had sounded like Parkinson. Harry didn't think even Draco was in the habit of admitting his friends casually to his bedroom, whether they knew that the two of them were sleeping together by now or not.

Then he understood. There was a fireplace in front of Draco's bed that Harry hadn't paid much attention to last night; he'd been more interested in how many pillows they could pile up and where, and how many places a tie wrapped around wrists could attach to, and whether the bed was strong enough to stand up to the more acrobatic things that Draco wanted to try. But now the fireplace glowed green, and Parkinson's face stared out from within it. She shook her head when she saw Harry looking at her.

"Do you know what the papers are saying about you this morning?" she demanded. "If you get Draco in trouble then I'll _never _forgive you."

Draco was gone, Harry noted. Probably to the bathroom; he wouldn't need to go fetch food, not when the house-elves would bring it to any room in the house. He took a few moments to yawn before he could answer Parkinson. The lines around her mouth got deeper and deeper, which made her look more like an angry squirrel, which reduced the intimidation factor somewhat.

"He was at the press conference with me yesterday," he said at last. "If he was worried about getting in trouble, he didn't show it." He leaned forwards. "Do you have the paper there? You ought to be able to see him, and the fence around the Manor, in at least a few of the photographs."

Parkinson sat back, and a different expression came over her face. "You're harder to intimidate than I realized," she said. "Draco should keep you around for those moments when he doesn't want to acknowledge what sins he's committed. You could be the one who answered the firecalls and explained that he's indisposed while he sneaks out the back."

Harry snorted despite himself. "He commits sins that he's not proud of? I find that hard to believe."

"Well, you would." Parkinson propped her chin on her hand and stared at him. "No offense, Potter, but _I_ find it hard to believe that you're going to last long around Draco. His mode of life isn't yours, his values aren't yours, and he actually cares about his friends."

Harry winced a little, but had to concede that he'd done things in the past seven years to deserve that blow. He sat up more than he had so far and took a deep breath. "I'm not planning to try and live with him completely on his terms. I'll set up my own, and we'll meet somewhere in the middle, probably after a lot of shouting and teasing and angry compromises."

"Sounds good," Parkinson said. "But once again, I doubt your ability to hold your head up under the constant storm of shit that's going to descend on you from all sides. From the papers, from your friends, from the Ministry...Draco could keep going under that. You really couldn't. You've become used to being the darling of the Ministry for the last seven years."

Harry snorted. "You know, now, what that was really based on. And if what I did yesterday doesn't convince you that I burned my bridges, then I don't know what will."

"You've burned them," Parkinson said. "But you're still holding onto them, and you're going to have to realize that you can't take a step backwards into space and recover what you had. I don't think you realize that. I don't think the shock's hit you."

"When it does, you'll be the first one I call," Harry told her sweetly. "Did you have a message for Draco, or should I simply tell him that you tried to talk to me when it was obvious that you had no notion what you were talking about?"

Parkinson stared at him, her face hard, her voice silent, and Harry suddenly winced. He knew that she had driven Callia away, and although at the time he hadn't wanted Callia hurt, he knew that she was an important part of the reason that he was free from the contract-

Parkinson burst out laughing. Harry held his cool as much as he could. He didn't know what she was doing, but he also knew that asking would probably make him look weak, at least to someone like Parkinson.

"You're stronger than I thought," she said, and beamed at him. "Tougher. One of the reasons I decided you would fold up under negative attention was that you never said anything insulting to anyone. At least, on the record." She rattled the newspaper she was suddenly holding in one hand. "This makes it clear that you did plenty of silent cutting on behalf of Sandborn."

Harry nodded. "Then do you want me to tell Draco that you firecalled, or not?"

"No need to, Harry. I'm here."

Harry started and turned his head. Draco was walking out of the bathroom, clad in nothing but a towel. He didn't seem worried or startled by Parkinson's floating head. He nodded and smiled at her as if they shared a secret, then turned and sat down on the end of the bed, beginning to pull on a pair of socks that he drew from under it. They looked perfectly clean, so Harry suspected that it must be a charmed place to store them, rather than the malignant home of dust that it looked like.

"The bathroom's free if you want to use it, Harry," Draco said casually, and tossed his head at the further door.

Harry could understand a dismissal when he heard it. He escaped gratefully, shutting the door behind him. He'd done well against Parkinson so far, but he didn't think that he understood her enough to keep doing so.

* * *

"I like him, Draco."

Draco raised an eyebrow and leaned back on the bed so that he could pull on his trousers. He had the towel strategically placed so Pansy wouldn't get an eyeful, though in the end it didn't matter. As she was fond of telling him the times she _had _caught him naked, he didn't have anything that Theo didn't have, and in a bigger size, too. "Really? Remind me never to try to distinguish what you like from what you dislike."

"I was testing him," Pansy said, without a trace of apology. "The way you know you would have tested Theo if you didn't already know him when we got married. If he can't stand up to a few insults from me, then he'll crumple like wet paper under the assault by the press, just as I was predicting."

Draco nodded. He knew that. He just had a better opinion of Harry's resilience than Pansy seemed to. "But he passed your test?"

"He did." Pansy's eyes sparkled at him as she rattled the paper in her hand. "And you should hear some of what they're saying about him. As many compliments about him being noble and tragic and a martyr as you could want, although of course some of the reporters are saying different things. And there are going to be so _many _investigations into the Ministry, to find out who knew what at different times. That'll give me a chance to sell some of Theo's dodgier potions and pick up so much gossip, you have no idea." She stared dreamily into the distance and sighed.

"You're forgiven," Draco said. "As long as you remember that Harry doesn't exist only to dance to your tune."

Pansy grinned at him.

Draco grinned back. "Getting awfully close to the boundaries of that little spell I cast on you, aren't you, Pans?"

Pansy lowered her eyes and tried to pretend that she was scowling, but Draco could read the twitches in her face better than probably anyone else except Theo, and he knew that she was fighting down amusement. That was fine. As long as she did nothing except fight it down, and sometimes express it, and didn't say anything to Harry that would count as the kind of pointed insults that she'd applied to Callia, the spell wouldn't activate, and Draco wouldn't be forced to care.

"You do have to decide what to do about Sandborn," Parkinson said quietly. "I know the truth, your friends know the truth, and Potter's friends might know the truth if they ever pull their heads out of their arses, but others are going to be devastated, and he'll take advantage of that pain to hurt Potter. And you, by extension," she added, with a resigned sideways look that did more to convince Draco than anything else that she'd accepted Harry as part of his life.

Draco nodded. "Is Sandborn awake?"

"The Healers confidently expect him to wake this morning," Pansy said, drawling the words with polished precision that he knew meant she was quoting. Probably one of the articles in the paper she was holding. "And you know that he reacts strongly and quickly to any perceived threat to his power. It's one of the reasons that he managed to stay in power for so long."

Draco snorted. "I know, but part of that power came from Harry, and Sandborn's confidence that Harry would back him up."

Pansy gave a small, fluid shrug. "He may attack more quickly than ever, because he knows that Potter's support being gone makes him vulnerable. And he'll certainly lash out at _him_, viewing it as a personal betrayal that Potter doesn't come when he's called. I don't think you can afford to hesitate."

"Sandborn is vulnerable himself," Draco said thoughtfully. He could feel Pansy maintaining silence to see where he was going with the argument, but part of the silence was scornful. She would think that _anyone _could see and come to that particular conclusion. Draco held her eyes and bared his teeth. "Harry matters to him, and that means anything mentioning Harry is going to push him further off-balance than a mention of some other, random supporter of his will. I think I'll have Harry write an owl to him."

Pansy arched her eyebrows. "Are you so sure that Potter can find the right words to hurt him?"

"Oh, I'll help with those," Draco said, relishing the taste of the words as he said them. "I'll find the right ones."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "And then Sandborn can talk about how likely it is that Potter would do something like that on his own, and spread stories that he's influenced by his Death Eater lover."

Draco shrugged. "He's going to spread stories no matter what we do. He _has _to, if he wants to regain control of the public mess Harry stirred up by giving details of his secret snubs and attempts to influence the Ministry. We'll deal with what we need to. Besides, I think the value of a letter both of us write will outweigh the gossip that he'll circulate as a result."

Pansy raised both eyebrows and clapped her hand to her mouth in a parody of an astonished expression. Draco patiently waited until she had had her fun, and then asked, "Yes? You were saying?"

"Just surprised, that's all," Pansy said. "You retain your brain despite fucking someone so stupid I'm surprised his nobility doesn't slosh out his ears when he moves. I reckon that old tale about someone being what he sleeps with isn't so true after all."

"Yes, lying down with a dog doesn't always involve rising up with fleas," Draco said brightly, and then shut the Floo connection before she could summon up the wherewithal to throw something at him. Theo had actually _had _fleas last year, as a result of a shipment of insects meant for Potions ingredients that hadn't been packed properly, and Pansy had attracted them before they came up with a spell to banish them.

Sometimes, it did feel good to get one over on Pansy. Especially because, as Draco had to admit if he was honest with himself, it didn't happen that often.

* * *

"Harry!"

Hermione's voice rang around the inside of his house when Harry stepped through the Floo. He winced. He'd meant this journey to be a short one; he'd pick up some clothes and then return to the Manor where Draco was waiting. He'd already written the letter to Sandborn that Draco asked for, and accepted some of the suggestions Draco wanted to make to change the wording. (Referring to the Minister's family ancestry as plagued with sores wasn't something Harry thought necessary, really).

But Hermione must have had a spell set up to summon her the instant he returned home. Harry made his way over to the door and opened it. She stood there with Ron behind her, eyes hot on his face.

"Hello," Harry said. "Come in." He was astonished to realize that he was calmer than during his last conversation with Hermione, considerably calmer. Shedding that burden of secrets in the talk to the press had been the best thing he could have done, he thought. It made him less likely to conceal his guilt in the other areas of his life, and less likely to feel that it was overwhelming and could never be apologized for.

Hermione stepped in. Ron hesitated, then followed. He gave a wary nod to Harry, one that said _I still haven't forgiven you. _Since Harry hadn't forgiven himself, either, that was fine with him. He waited for them to say something, and then decided that he might as well start the conversation, as they just stood there.

"Sit down, please," he said. Hermione hesitated in turn, then sat down on the couch where she'd been once before. Ron stood behind her, folding his arms and frowning in a way that Harry had known to make hardened Dark wizards wet themselves. He kept standing, too. He didn't know what would happen next, but he wanted to keep his options open.

"We saw the story in the papers," Hermione said. "Why did you do that?"

"Because it was time to confess," Harry said. "And because Sandborn is asleep at the moment, although he'll be waking up soon. That means we have a short period of time to spin the story and tell the truth while he can't tell his side of the story and get listened to."

Another stare from Hermione, another cautious nod from Ron. Then Hermione said, as if testing the waters, "Which reason was the stronger?"

Harry thought about it, then answered, "The second one. I didn't realize how much I wanted to confess, how much I wanted to be free of the contract, until I did it."

"Then it was Malfoy's idea," Hermione said.

Harry snarled at her. "_Look_," he said, when she jumped. "You can be upset about anything _I _did. I did plenty. But it's actually kind of insulting to me that you keep trying to take away things I did and pin them on Draco."

"Draco, is it now?" Ron muttered.

Harry ignored him. If Ron wanted to speak up in this conversation, then he could. "I was the one who made the contract," he said. "I was the one who was too afraid of their fear of me to try and find some other alternative. I was the one who lied to you. I was the one who aided Sandborn in intimidating and corrupting and bribing other people. Draco didn't do anything except the few actions in the past fortnight that were necessary to free me. Stop insisting he's an evil mastermind. He's not a nice person, no. He didn't ask for my permission before he went ahead and did this, no. He doesn't have the nicest motivations, no. But _stop _thinking it was a story of an evil Slytherin and an innocent Gryffindor. I don't actually have that much innocence left."

Hermione gazed steadily at him, her eyes so troubled that he thought she would continue to disagree for a moment. But Ron stepped forwards and put his arm around her. "I think he's right," he murmured. "Look at the way his face flushes when he talks about it. This is something more than Harry just trying to take on the guilt for something he did, like usual."

"But can we trust _anything _he says?" Hermione snapped out, her hands closing into fists on her knees until Harry thought she would tear up her robes. "I don't think we can."

"Then why did you come here?" Harry asked. He tamped down all the angry things he could have said, and let some of his first soul come back. "Was it to warn me about the stories in the _Prophet? _To question me? To justify your hatred of Draco? The last part is useless, since I don't intend to listen to you. But you can do either of the first."

"I don't think it's wise to treat Sandborn as an enemy," Ron said. "He was-well, he fulfilled the contract, mate. He gave you everything you wanted. You should be the one trying to make up something to him."

Harry shrugged. "He also used me as a political tool and attacked me when I told him that I was breaking free. He's an enemy because that's what he has to be, and if I don't defend myself he'll destroy me."

"You didn't used to think like this," Hermione whispered.

Harry nodded. "But it's the way I've thought for years now. The uncomplicated, innocent Gryffindor I was showing you was the thing that didn't exist."

Hermione shut her eyes. Ron looked at her uncertainly for a minute, then forged ahead. "What happens if Sandborn opposes you?"

"I fight him," Harry said. "By telling the truth, and taunting him so he can't think straight, and making sure that he can never catch me alone. I already have a resignation letter prepared. He told me that I would lose my job, so it's the best idea."

"You can't," Ron said, and then stopped and looked immensely frustrated.

"It's the best course," Harry said quietly. "I was never an Auror for the good reasons that you wanted to be, Ron. So much of my desire to help people was burned out of me during the war. When I saw the Wizengamot was afraid of my power, part of me just wanted to crawl into a hole and pull it in after me. I became an Auror because Sandborn required it of me. It's a career that really needs passion and enthusiasm, not the fakery I was bringing to it."

"There _has _to be a compromise," Ron said. He was running his hand through his hair as if he would pull it out. Harry knew the feeling. "You have to be able to stay an Auror-"

Harry shook his head. "It doesn't _matter _to me that much. What does is retaining some freedom, and some privacy."

"And not having Malfoy judged," Hermione said bitterly. "Or the other Slytherins."

"They did what they did because of what _I _had done," Harry said. "I told you, don't blame them for actions they took because of mine." He looked at Ron. "So. Is there anything else I can tell you?"

"You can apologize again, and see if it sounds more sincere this time." Ron's eyes were hard.

Harry bit the corner of his lip. He still wanted to retort, but Ron was right. They were here, talking to him. That was more than he had expected, frankly, when he realized how badly he'd hurt them.

Hell, he might still not understand how badly he'd hurt them. There had been more injuries than he could count, more lies than he could count.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For depriving you of your dreams and ambitions and making you doubt yourselves most of all. I was prepared to throw my own life into disarray when the Slytherins started helping me, but I didn't think of what it would do to you. I've considered my own position for so long that I forgot there was anyone else in the world."

"Was it really just fear that made you do it?" Ron asked. There was a yearning quiver in the back of his voice, Harry thought. He really _wanted _to understand why this had happened, but so far the reasons weren't sufficient. "Or your martyr complex?"

"Both of those," Harry said. "And fear of what I was supposed to do now that the war was done and I didn't have a life laid out for me. It was a relief to have Sandborn order me around, really. I could always tell myself I was doing it for someone else, that I was only suffering because it meant happiness for someone else."

"You can do something for me," Hermione said suddenly.

Harry nodded to her, trying not to show the hope that rose up in him. It might be insulting-or it might not. He didn't know his friends any more than they knew him. "What?"

"Don't help me." Hermione's face was flushed, her eyes glittering like jewels. "Just _don't. _No matter what you think I need, no matter how much opposition I'm facing. Don't try to help me pass legislation or fight enemies in the Ministry."

Harry nodded, swallowing the immediate lump of protest that tried to make its way up his throat. _What if you're in a situation where I can save your life? _Yes, it was possible that that might happen. But he was really too used to thinking of Hermione as helpless now, someone who had to be coddled into a position of power and influence and then protected as though she was a helpless chick. He had to get over that. It was his problem, not hers. "I promise."

"The same thing for me," Ron said. "I don't know if I'll stay on as an Auror. Or Sandborn might sack me, for all I know." His slow, murderous look said that Sandborn could try, but would be better off not succeeding. "I don't want you to leap in and help me. Let us be independent."

"Okay," Harry said. "I promise."

Ron and Hermione looked at each other as if seeking more words in each other's faces, then nodded warily to him and started to drift towards the door. Harry understood. They had made one step, but they didn't know what the next one was yet. Hell, neither did he.

Someone knocked on the door before they could make it out. Harry restrained the impulse to step in front of them with wand drawn, and let Hermione open it.

Two Aurors, looking uncomfortable, stood there. The one on the left was Allen; she gave Harry a harsh, penetrating look. The other was a tall man Harry knew only vaguely as Auror Dusk, who coughed and said, "Auror Potter?"

"Yes." Harry stepped forwards then.

"You are under arrest for treason to Minister Sandborn." Dusk looked intensely unhappy as he said the words, but that didn't stop him from saying them.

Harry took a breath and settled himself. He had known something like this might happen. "All right," he said, and twisted his head back to speak to his friends. "Will you let Malfoy know, please? He'd like to."

He turned around to surrender his wand to Allen, who he suspected would take good care of it, and found that he was much calmer than he'd expected. Yes, Sandborn was going to do something like this when he found his prize tool slipping out of his possession. Of course.

In the meantime, Harry would depend on Draco to come to him, and his own wits to guard him.


	29. Even a Stopped Clock

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Nine-Even a Stopped Clock_

Allen and Dusk brought him in by a back entrance. Harry raised his eyebrows. That interested him. It suggested that Sandborn wanted to make less of a public fuss than Harry had assumed he did. Harry had accepted that Sandborn was his enemy now, _arresting _him of all things. Why not make a spectacle of it, and try to disparage the rumors that Harry had started about him by those means?

Well, perhaps he might fear the people who would disbelieve him. Harry nodded. That was probably it. This way gave Sandborn more options to control the rumors. The problem with spectacles, as he had told Harry several times, was that there was always some contrarian who would take against it on the grounds of either money or resentment that they weren't the ones being honored.

"You're smiling."

Allen had spoken in a murmur, as if fearful of attracting Dusk's attention. Harry nodded to her. "Just wondering about the quiet arrest. You take me out of my home, and then you don't parade me through the corridors?"

"Orders," Allen said, with a shrug that might have been designed to convey insouciance. But she watched Harry out of the corner of one eye, and Harry nodded. Yes, he understood the message she was giving him. This had been Sandborn's idea. The arrest, the entrance, all of it.

By the time they reached the Minister's office, Harry had settled himself for the confrontation. It wouldn't be pleasant, but Sandborn was probably anticipating a paper defiance he could blow away. Harry had Draco on his side now, and the realization that he might get his friends back, and the freedom he had tasted. He wouldn't fall under the domination of the contract again simply because Sandborn wanted him to.

The door swung slowly open, Sandborn seeking to intimidate, impress. Harry stood in place and looked around alertly as Allen and Dusk guided him in. They had taken his wand, of course. Harry flexed his hands in the light ropes that gripped them and wondered if he would have to defend himself from Sandborn a third time.

Sandborn sat behind his desk. One glance at his reddened eyes and pale cheeks, and Harry's suspicions began to decay. Sandborn had too obviously not recovered from the two days of enchanted sleep Harry had imposed on him. Fine. He probably wouldn't need to defend himself with his hands, then.

"Leave him." Sandborn's voice had a subdued bite that made Dusk wince and step back. Allen lingered for a moment.

"Sir?" she murmured. "Surely you want guards to stay with you and ward you from such a dangerous man?"

Harry kept himself from reacting, but he felt a faint shimmer of warmth. So her support of him went deeper than he had known. That mattered. It suggested not all the Aurors had turned against him.

"No." Sandborn stood and then swayed, grimacing. He slammed his hands into the desk, hiding his need for support in the emphatic gesture. "Leave now, Auror Allen, before I decide that _you _are obstructing me in the pursuit of my duties."

The expression on Allen's face didn't change. She bowed to Sandborn and turned away, accompanying Dusk out the door. As far as Harry knew. they also took his wand. Well. He had summoned it wandlessly before.

The door shut, and they stood there in silence, staring at each other. Sandborn still breathed too fast. Harry didn't know which emotion it came from, anger or weariness, but it didn't matter. He didn't have either. He waited, and finally Sandborn broke and leaned forwards with a desperate face.

"Why did you leave me?" he whispered. "I fulfilled my promises. I did what you asked. There was no reason for you to destroy me. If you had wanted a new contract, we could have negotiated one."

Harry winced. He knew that he hadn't been entirely fair in blaming Sandborn for what the contract had become, an iron cage that had writhed around his life and shut out the sunlight.

But he had lived through the guilt, he had acknowledged it, and surrendering to it now wouldn't make what he had done any better. "If the contract had been limited to the initial promises, or not included anything illegal, then it would have been all right," Harry answered. "But you had me corrupting people, adding to the corruption in the Ministry, and acting our your personal grudges for you. That soured me early on. I knew that it was a tool of political control to you, not the kind of bargain two friends would strike. It always was, or you would have refused the contract I first brought to you and worked to free the accused children of Death Eater parents because it was the right thing to do."

"Some of what you asked me to do was also illegal," Sandborn said, a dust-dry whisper.

Harry nodded. "I'm ashamed of myself for that. But I asked for fewer things than you did, always. In return for two deeds at first-that you would pardon the accused like Draco Malfoy and have their money and properties returned to them-you asked for four: that I would become an Auror, that I would support you in your bid for election, that I would become the Ministry's star speaker and voice, and that I would give autographs and photos to any official press reporter who asked me. Your deeds were one-time things. What I did dominated my life."

"You could have refused."

"I was a stupid, scared kid," Harry said. "You were far older than me, with years of political experience. Don't tell me that you didn't see the ramifications of the contract, what it would mean to you and what to me, far more clearly than I did. And yet, you accepted it anyway, instead of discouraging me." He stopped. His voice was shaking, and he blinked. _I didn't realize I still felt that strongly about it. I didn't realize I felt that way at all. _"You were a politician. Fine, if you don't want me to blame you for that, I won't. But then you can't claim that this was about some fucked-up friendship and that I've betrayed you personally."

"For me, it was always both personal and political." Sandborn stepped around the desk. "I admired what you had done in the war with You-Know-Who. I knew that you needed a mentor-"

Harry sneered at him. "You were never that. You ordered me to do things, you didn't teach me. Admit it, you thought I needed a _master_, and when I came to you with the chain and collar already in my hands, you were more than happy to put them around my neck."

Sandborn flushed. "You should know better, Harry," he whispered. "How much did I give you? How much would it hurt your friends, how much would it damage your life, to have it all taken away?"

"My friends already know, and they're taking their own steps to get rid of what I won for them," Harry said. He didn't know that was completely true, since Ron was still an Auror and he didn't think Hermione had given up her position or argued against her own legislation, yet, but why would he owe Sandborn the complete truth? "And since you arrested me today, I think it's safe to say that I'm not an Auror anymore."

"I could reveal the contract," Sandborn whispered. "I could make them despise you."

Harry shrugged. "I've already done more than enough to make them despise me. There are people who are never going to trust me again. If I bowed my head and let you put me under the yoke again, it wouldn't matter. I've broken the best tool in your armory, and it won't work again."

Sandborn's face turned purple, but he closed his eyes as though to control his temper or his voice. "You have to understand," he said. "I've had you arrested for treason. You'll go on trial for attempted murder if you don't cooperate."

"And in the trial, I'll request Veritaserum and Pensieves, as is my legal right," Harry said coldly. He didn't understand why _Sandborn _didn't understand. The man had political instincts. It wasn't like him to let personal passions rule the day. "Who do you think will look worse when the truth comes out?"

Sandborn shook his head, the purple fading as he opened his eyes to stare at Harry. "Don't you _know _how bad that will make you look?"

"Yes," Harry said. "Of course I do. What I don't understand is why _you _think that I care about that anymore. I've destroyed my own reputation. I came along with your Aurors to the arrest even though I could have resisted and run. I'm telling you that I'd take Veritaserum during the trial, even though I know that some people would probably take the chance to ask me questions that I'd prefer they didn't." He did laugh this time, because Sandborn looked stupefied.

And he _understood._

"You were thinking it was all a ploy, weren't you?" Harry asked Sandborn softly. "That I was only pretending not to care about the destruction of my reputation until you offered me a better deal?" He shook his head, and his joy leaped up to new heights when Sandborn clenched down on the edge of the desk with a grip that looked hard enough to break it. "No. I really do mean this. I'm sacrificing everything, giving everything up, that I gained from the contract. I know there's no other way to do it."

"If I tell them about the contract..."

"If you do, in detail," Harry said, "then you'll suffer as much as I do. More. I told you what I think you should have done, since you were the adult and I was the teenager when I offered you that contract. There will be others who'll think that, too. Give it up, Minister. It's _over. _There's nothing you can take away from me that I haven't already taken away from myself."

Sandborn turned his back for a minute, and stared out the window. Then he said, without turning back, "If I harm your friends..."

"Take away their gains from the contract, and they'll be prepared for it," Harry said. "Hurt them more than that, and they'll have the legal reasons and resources to defend themselves. Besides, you're already under investigation from Madam Rettern's direction. Do you _really _want to draw more attention down on yourself just now?"

"You planned that as well."

"I had nothing to do with the beginning of that investigation," Harry said, truthfully, "although it's true that she called me in to talk to me, and tried to promise me things I didn't want to betray you."

"No, you didn't need _payment _for that, did you?" Sandborn turned back, and this time his face was remote, and he seemed to have shoved all his emotions down so far into the back of his mind that Harry was faintly impressed. It would do him no good, of course, but at least it might make their final parting marked by a little less shouting and spittle. "You're so much less than I ever thought you."

Harry winced. This was the point when he flushed with embarrassment for the Minister rather than himself. "You wanted to think we were friends," he said. "Despite the way you used me. And you still wanted to think of me as-what? A hero? Someone noble? Despite what I did for you?"

"There is no way to explain what you have done to me, or excuse it," Sandborn whispered hoarsely. "And you are wrong in saying that there is nothing I can take from you. Your freedom. You can spend years in a holding cell, waiting for trial."

Harry rolled his eyes. "And Rettern and your other critics on the Wizengamot will let that pass without a challenge? Do you really believe that, or are you only pretending to be that stupid? Of _course _they won't."

Sandborn paced back and forth in front of his desk. He looked, Harry thought, like a rat scratching at the bars of his cage, desperate to find a way that he could break free of the purposes he knew he would be put to.

Maybe he could, at that. Harry didn't really care what would happen to Sandborn from the moment that he walked out of the Ministry and left the man behind. Perhaps he would manage to recover and continue in the Minister's office for the twelve years Harry had wanted as a requirement of the contract, or even longer. It didn't trouble Harry. Whatever world he lived in after this, it wasn't going to be a political one.

A knock on the door interrupted their staring contest. At least, it did for Sandborn. Harry kept watching him, because Sandborn was so obviously on the edge of desperation that Harry wouldn't put it past him to strike the moment Harry's back was turned.

"Yes?" Sandborn snarled.

Allen opened the door. Her eyes darted once to Harry before focusing on the Minister. "Draco Malfoy is here and demanding to see you, sir," she said flatly. "Along with two _Prophet _reports and Madam Rettern."

Sandborn looked as if he might bite something. "Malfoy is an associate of a known traitor," he said. "He is to be detained. Tell the reporters and Madam Rettern that I will be along to talk to them in a moment-"

"_Associating _with someone is enough for an arrest now? Not simply for the Ministry to taken an interest in and question one? Jared. I am disappointed in you."

Rettern sailed through the office door, nodding and smiling at Allen as if they were confederates. Harry didn't think so, though. Allen would simply have stood aside, and if someone questioned her about it later, she could always say that she was following the Auror Code of Conduct, which mandated not arresting someone unless you had a reasonable suspicion of their guilt. Having the Minister command it, especially a Minister who was known to have grudges against someone he was ordering the arrest of, wasn't enough.

Harry wondered idly why, if she planned to use that as a defense, she had arrested him. Well, perhaps she had thought she was doing him a favor to be one of the arresting Aurors. Dusk would probably have gone ahead and done it without hesitation, but Allen could make herself a witness.

From the moment Rettern stepped into the office, Sandborn focused on her. Harry worked his way back towards the door with a little quiet footwork, and nodded to the _Prophet _reporters leaning around the door with their Quick-Quotes Quills and their cameras on their shoulders. Draco was behind them, giving Harry an expansive smile and reaching out with one arm.

Harry quickly joined him, feeling that arm settle around his shoulders like an immovable bar. "You went for the reporters and Rettern when my friends told you what had happened?" he murmured into his ear.

"Yes." Draco was looking at Sandborn, and there was a fixed quality to his smile that worried Harry. The last thing he needed was _Draco _deciding that he had a grudge against Sandborn. He waved his hand up and down in front of Draco's eyes, and Draco blinked and then smiled at him. "Stop that. I did what I did because I wanted you safe. And they were only too happy to come along."

Harry looked back at Rettern and Sandborn. Rettern had her hands braced on her hips, and was speaking to Sandborn in a rapid murmur, too low for Harry to hear what they were saying. He shook his head. The reporters were leaning nearer, straining to make it out, and Harry wished them welcome to it. "Can we leave?"

* * *

Draco would have liked to stay. Watching Sandborn's face when his eyes met Draco's, and mouthing threats to him that he could have denied since no one else was watching his lips that closely, sounded like a fine morning to him.

But Harry looked weary and, worse, bored. In deep sympathy with that frame of mind, Draco gave him something new to think about. "I thought you were under arrest?"

"Shit, you're right," Harry muttered, and turned around, craning his neck as though he expected to find someone who could dismiss the charges behind him. Draco tightened his grip on his arm, so that he wouldn't run off and do something stupid, and shook his head.

"The Aurors who brought you in?" he asked. "They might know what you need to do." _And it wouldn't hurt to have extra witnesses to Sandborn's mental degradation. _The insults he and Rettern were barking at each other had already begun to filter through the open door, and they were attracting an audience. Draco caught the eye of a tall, blonde Auror who beckoned to them expressively.

"Allen," Harry said, seeming to see her at the same time. He pulled on Draco's arm, and Draco began to squirm through the crowd towards her. More than one person gave them a second glance, but most of them seemed too interested in the Minister, and in the burning question as to whether they should listen in silent horror or attack or defend him, to care. Soon they were at the tall Auror's side, and she nodded at them both with something like sympathy.

"I've spoken to Dusk," she told Harry. The other arresting Auror, Draco presumed, and was silently impressed with his own brilliance. "He's agreed not to remember it if you don't." She gave Harry a thin, sudden smile. "He owes me a favor."

"Thank you," Harry said, and gave her a smile and a squeeze of her arm that was too friendly for Draco's peace of mind. He gave her a smile, too, and flicked his fingers in a dismissive gesture. Allen rolled her eyes and walked away. Draco sniffed at her back. He had never got along with self-possessed, haughty blonds. They should spend more time looking in the mirror and considering why.

"So that's it, then," Harry said three minutes later, as they waited in the Ministry Atrium for a free fireplace. He looked a little dazed, and kept tugging his hair down by his fringe to hide his scar. Draco reached up and stopped him with one hand on his wrist. Jagged movements like that would draw more attention, in the end, than simply standing there. Harry gave him a grateful look and stopped. "Did Ron and Hermione tell you what happened?"

"Yes." Draco frowned at the memory of them almost climbing out of the fireplace in their haste to reach him. They would never have been able to contact him if they hadn't used Harry's Floo, of course. He wouldn't put up with soot on his carpets. "And I must say, Weasley is prone to panic in a crisis. It causes me to wonder about our Ministry's Auror program. Another reason why your contract wasn't a good idea."

Harry stared at him, opened his mouth, and then shut it and looked away, shaking his head. The motion was one of such despair that Draco reached out and turned his face back, cupping his cheek so that Harry could read it as a tender gesture rather than an imperious one, if he was so inclined.

"What?" he demanded.

"I don't know if this is going to work," Harry murmured, looking anywhere but at him. "You just-Draco, you don't get along with my friends. You _despise _them, in fact. You say things like that, and I realize it. But you also helped me, and you came and got me-and brought Rettern-"

"That was a simple means of contacting her and offering her the chance to humiliate Sandborn," Draco began, thinking it might be a good idea at the moment to emphasize his modesty.

"You're a hero for me," Harry said. "But I also don't know how this will fucking _work. _Not when you despise my friends. Not when yours only had a reason to help me because of the debt. How will they feel about me now?"

"That you're stupider than they are and more trouble than you're worth," Draco said. "But honestly, they feel like that about most of my lovers who aren't one of them." He increased the pressure of his hand on Harry's face and turned it up until Harry didn't really have a choice about meeting his eyes. "I don't feel inclined to give up on this because Weasley's a poor Auror."

"That you _think _things like that is the problem," Harry said. His brow was furrowed, disguising the scar further. Draco glanced at the front of the line and estimated that they were three people away from being able to take the Floo. Good. "And you'll say them."

"Not around them," Draco said, seeing the problem now, and feeling a stir of indignation beneath his breastbone that Harry would accuse him of something like that. "I would never do that. It would be impolite."

Harry stared at him, then snorted. "You had no block against saying things _much _more impolite to me when you were first telling me about the debt and convincing me to accept your help."

Draco arched an eyebrow. "But I don't owe Weasley a debt. I'll treat him, and Granger, like unpleasant people I meet at a party. I'll nod and murmur and not say what I'm really thinking. I'll keep the insults for Pansy, who appreciates them, or for you if I can't hold them back anymore."

Harry fell silent, scowling at nothing. Then he shook his head. "I don't think that should be enough," he said. "But I'll let it be. For now."

"How bloody generous of you," Draco said, restraining the impulse to shake or pinch him. They were almost at the front of the line now, and they would be there when this thin witch made up her mind about how to pronounce Diagon Alley. "What makes you think that you'll always behave politely in front of _my _friends?"

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. Draco was glad. He _knew _Harry would have said that they were really unpleasant, condescending people, while his friends were angels of light and tenderness who didn't deserve to be treated the way Draco was going to treat them. And Draco really would have had to pinch him, in a place that would leave a permanent bruise, if he did that. "Sorry," Harry said at last. "I'm still new at this. And this is why I wonder-"

"If it's going to last, I know." Draco did his best to soften his voice when Harry glanced up at him, glints of nervousness dancing in his eyes. "But right now, we're going to go ahead and try."

Harry nodded. "We still need to stop by my house," he added, stepping up next to the Floo and ignoring the way the witch gaped at them. Luckily, she had finally settled on the way to pronounce Diagon Alley, and whirled away into the green, obviating the need on Draco's part to come up with a good insult. "I need my clothes."

"Of course," Draco said. "But let's go home first, so that we can get something to eat."

Harry grunted. That apparently sounded fine to him, probably because of the food, but Draco noted smugly that he hadn't objected to the word "home" either. He was beside Draco as Draco cast the Floo powder in and shouted, "Malfoy Manor!"

That was all he could ask for right now.


	30. Life's Natural Pace

Thank you again for all the reviews! This is the last chapter of _Contracted. _Hopefully the story ends gracefully, and it was worth coming all this way.

_Chapter Thirty-Life's Natural Pace_

"Do you really think that Draco is going to be happy?"

Pansy glanced up across the table and raised her eyebrows. Theo flushed, but maintained his stare and refused to touch the healthy, nutritious meal that he needed after spending all night either working in the Ministry potions lab or wringing new noises out of their bed with Pansy.

"I need to know," he said. "There are ways to get rid of Potter if he's _not _going to make Draco happy, and you and I both know that." He glared at her now, as if he suspected that she hadn't judged Draco's state of mind accurately and would have let him remain with someone who would only cause him pain.

Pansy pointedly took a long sip of her delicate fruit punch and ate a few bites of her kippers before responding. Theo ducked his head and began eating again, which was one problem solved. Of course, the problem of his doubting her judgment ran deeper and would require more adjustments.

_I had thought that I had tamed the last of that out of him._

"He will be happy overall," Pansy said. "Not always in the day-to-day interactions. Who could be, yoked to a Gryffindor? But Potter has the wits to retort to me, the strength to put up with Draco's whinging, and enough stamina to keep up with Draco. Those aren't small gifts."

Theo tried to say something, but he was gumming it through his scone. Pansy studied him, and he swallowed before he continued. "What about his morality? Is that going to get in the way?"

"Draco is not such a fool," Pansy said. "I'm sure there are moments when Potter will want to spend all day rescuing kittens in trees, but Draco will simply use a spell to bring them back to the ground. He is more practical than Potter, and that includes using adaptations to his circumstances."

"If he's in love..."

Pansy sighed and stood up, walking around the table until she reached the back of Theo's chair. Theo tilted his head to look up at her. That made his neck seem more slender, which in turn made it easier for Pansy to get her hand around.

"Dear, dear Theo," she whispered. "Would you speak slightingly of love, when we share it? Would you _think _that I-and Astoria, who is sensible-would allow Draco to fall in love with someone who would not return exactly the same amount of weakness, if not the same amount of strength?" _And weakness, and not strength, is the calculation that matters here, the way that Potter would affect Draco's behavior._

Theo had the grace to flush all the way to the base of his neck this time, almost to the level of her gripping fingers. "I...no," he said. "Neither?" His eyes darted from her face to her hand.

"Better," Pansy allowed, and slipped her hand away from his throat, giving him a half-smile. "But I think that we should investigate the reasons that the doubt arose in the first place. Don't you?"

Theo rose and snatched at her waist. He always _was _responsive to that particular tone of voice, one of the reasons she'd married him.

Pansy smiled as they bustled towards the bedroom. Theo would need another breakfast later, but it had been a long time since he took a holiday from the labs. No one would think it suspicious if he claimed one now.

And he need tell no one. Privacy was always important to maintain, at least until Pansy chose to break it.

* * *

Astoria had her first chance to see how Draco, Potter, and Potter's friends interacted when they all met at a gala that Draco had decided to throw at the Manor. It was apparently to celebrate Potter giving up his small house and moving in with Draco.

Astoria remembered no such celebration when she and Draco had still tried to share their lives. But then, there was more than one reason that she had chosen Blaise-although perhaps all of them came down to his undoubted superiority to Draco in every way.

They gave Aurora over to one of Draco's house-elves, the only one Astoria still trusted, and entered the formal dining hall of the Manor. Astoria did not think it was one of the places that the Dark Lord had sullied with his touch when he lived here, and if it was, it had since been thoroughly scrubbed. White wood gleamed everywhere, from rafters and columns and tables. High, hanging lamps flaring with oily flame helped maintain the impression of an old wooden feasting hall. Astoria accepted a glass of wine from one of the circulating house-elves, glad that Draco had not chosen to neglect _all _modern comforts-she did not care for mead-and looked around the room.

The center of all eyes was Draco and Potter, of course. Potter's hair looked halfway presentable, along with his robes. They circulated through the room, and Draco made charming conversation while Potter kept silent and looked beautiful. Astoria nodded. Perhaps Potter had grown political instincts that had not died with the death of his career.

She had turned to say so to Blaise when he gripped her arm. Astoria followed his gaze and found Granger and Weasley winding their way up to Draco and Potter, expressions on their faces as though they crossed swaying log bridges over a pit.

It was their own fault if they did so, Astoria thought. Draco was skilled in making his guests welcome, applying his charm to them like fire that would melt wax and glass and ice. But Granger and Weasley seemed to have backbones of steel, which took longer.

"Not to mention sticks of it in their arses," Blaise murmured, and Astoria let her fingers play over his arm, sharing a smile with him that they both tilted their heads closer together to hide.

As far as Astoria could see, Weasley and Granger had braced for a fall that never came. They spoke to Draco. He inclined his head and said something in return, short but courteous enough to make Granger blink and respond. Weasley stepped back, fading behind his wife as he must do often, but never lunged at Draco or made a pretense of raising his wand. He spoke more to Potter, who watched him with a bright enough smile that Astoria wondered Draco wasn't jealous.

Draco's arm snaked around Potter's waist and pulled him a step in. Astoria felt her lips part. _Oh_.

"What is it?" Blaise murmured into her ear as he relieved another elf of nearly half a tray of small biscuits with chocolate in the middle. Astoria shook her head. She would have scolded him for that at home, but then, it was not often nowadays that they had the chance to eat without Aurora demanding part of their meal.

"Look at the way Draco is holding him."

Blaise followed her eyes, and knew, as always, without asking, what to look for. Draco's hand loosely cupped Potter's hip, his arm not letting Potter stray far from his side even when his friends began to drift off and Potter followed them with his eyes. Potter turned and said something sharp enough to make hair puff out around Draco's ear. Draco met his eyes and smiled, the smile sharper than the words.

"My God," Blaise said weakly, luckily after he had swallowed one of the biscuits. Astoria would hate to nudge her husband in the ribs at the moment. "He's really..."

"Yes, he is," Astoria said, and prepared herself to greet Draco and Potter as they moved towards them. A tension had eased out of her shoulders and spine that she had not wanted to admit to herself she still carried. If Draco touched Potter like _that, _then they might do very well.

* * *

"And you will swear under Veritaserum that all the provisions of the contract that you described to us are true?"

Harry steadily met Rettern's eyes. She had been the main prosecutor assigned to the case, of course; it was inevitable, when she was the one who was destroying Sandborn's career with a rusty knife. She was staring at Harry now as if she pitied him, as if she despised him, as if she thought that he would end up hanging himself rather than letting the Wizengamot question him like this.

But Harry had promised that he would. Sworn that he would. To himself, to Sandborn, to Draco, although Draco hadn't thought it was a good idea and had tried to stop him.

Draco was standing off to one side of the courtroom, though, watching in silence, and he had promised not to interfere. Harry inclined his head. "Yes."

Rettern led him through the steps, looking at Pensieve memories and discussing the moment when he had first approached Sandborn with the contract-although she skimmed pretty lightly over the fear that Harry had seen in the eyes of the Wizengamot as a possible motivation-and dwelling lovingly on the ways that Harry had fought to get free of the contract. Harry answered every question except the ones that could have led back to and implicated Draco. His voice was quiet and calm, his first soul thrumming behind his eyes, for the last time that it would ever be needed.

Because he had promised that he would testify under Veritaserum, they didn't actually consider using it. Harry had sighed when he first realized that, and the sigh had had the word _good_ in it, if anyone had listened. He didn't mind exposing what he had done, what Sandborn had done, and what some of their allies in their illegal activities had done, but he balked at exposing Draco and the others who had helped him.

As he stepped down from the witness's podium, he did see someone other than Draco who was looking at him approvingly. She sat in the small gallery reserved for visitors, and she inclined her head to him when she saw him watching her back. She looked like Astoria Greengrass, Harry thought, like Callia, but her blonde hair was sleeker and smoother, and she wore a red dress that was less like formal robes than anything Callia or Astoria would be seen in public wearing.

Harry let his lips shape a question. _Who?_

She saw it, but shook her head at him and rose a moment later, threading her way towards the back of the courtroom, and Harry forgot about her when he turned and saw Draco waiting for him.

He'd done his duty. He'd spilled all the secrets, made Sandborn's attempt to set himself up as practically ruler of the wizarding world into a matter of history that the Wizengamot could pick over and eat as long as they chose. Now he was going to make a new life for himself, a life that would only have the duties and the people he chose as part of it.

A life with Draco.

* * *

Daphne smiled and shook her head as she stepped out of the courtroom, walking down the corridor with an easy stride that meant most people didn't turn to look twice at her, except in appreciation. The Ministry assumed that most visitors not actually in chains had a reason to be there. And alert, confident people weren't the stereotype of thieves in most people's minds, who sneaked and skulked and flinched when someone looked at them.

Daphne would have thought the common stereotypes of thieves left much to be desired, but it had been useful to her more than once.

She ducked into a bathroom that opened its door halfway down the corridor. Her hands were already busy in her hair as she stood there, undoing the red ribbons that held it back in a series of smooth braids; her quick ears had told her there was no one else here. She shook her head, letting the hair fall down until it reached her shoulders, and then reached up and tapped her wand beneath her eyes.

They sparked and changed. Daphne studied herself critically for a moment, then shook her head. No, that wouldn't do. Probably from watching Potter in the courtroom, she had brightened her eyes to the shade of his, and that green was too noticeable. People would fixate on her, probably thinking she was Potter trying to sneak away from his gape-mouthed public in female dress.

Another tap reduced the green to a dimmer shade, and then Daphne moved her wand over her hair, her face, her neck, her chest, her breasts, her hips, her thighs, her arse. Each place she tapped dimmed. It was a version of a Disillusionment Charm specifically meant for passage through areas where non-human guards waited who wouldn't be fooled by the Charm.

Such as the wards around the chamber of a powerful member of the Wizengamot.

Daphne turned away with her hair flying behind her and strode, as confidently as before, towards the far side of the Ministry. Uninterested eyes slid past her. Most of those she passed would say that she was a smudge of smoke, or a drifting mist, or a small, mousy woman in a ragged robe. What everyone saw was different, Daphne's magic interacting with their preconceptions.

Daphne was smiling by the time she reached where she was going, the wing of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that housed the Wizengamot offices. She had walked the whole way, not wanting to be caught in the confined space of a lift in case someone saw her and stopped her. No one could block the stairs, everyone slid past her, and she owned the world.

She stepped easily through the wards clustered around Madam Rettern's door. They buzzed and then fell silent, like puzzled bees. Daphne studied the lock and smiled again. Blood-lock, linked to the blood of a particular witch or wizard, much like the first ward around the information concerning the Death Eater trials in the Ministry Archives. Impenetrable, normally.

Daphne did not lead a normal life. She reached into a robe pocket and brought out a minute scarab, a glittering black bug that flexed to life when her fingers brushed over its legs. She held it in one hand, palm flat, and traced a figure eight on its back. It spat out a tiny stream of blood it had taken by crawling up Madam Rettern's robes earlier that day and biting her ear. She had swatted, the beetle had fallen, and she had gone on her way, convinced it was an ordinary insect bite.

Daphne hummed as she poured the blood on the lock and it clicked open. Then she stepped into Madam Rettern's chamber and inhaled through her nose, relishing the scent of so much wealth in one place.

It didn't take her long to find what she was looking for. Rettern happened to be one of those compulsively organized people who kept her files in order and cross-referenced. The folders labeled _Harry Potter _and _Draco Malfoy _fell into Daphne's hands, and she set about copying them onto parchment that she'd brought with her. Some of the simpler work she'd done lately.

She would owl copies of the relevant information to Draco and Potter when she was out of the country, in case Rettern decided they were her next targets. She could call it a wedding present.

And then she could cease the good-will gestures and get back to a profitable business. There was a heavily protected vault buried under the Pyrenees calling her name.

Rumor said it was guided by a dragon.

Daphne smiled, and patted one pocket, where a sapphire she had liberated years ago rested. It would come in very handy if rumor was true.

She made sure to shut the door conscientiously behind her when she left. No telling what untrustworthy person might wander in past the wards if she didn't.

* * *

"Thanks for inviting us."

Ginny smiled. She had the feeling that the smile probably looked as tooth-gritting as it felt, but she couldn't help it. Draco Malfoy was sitting in her drawing room-well, all right, her and Luna's drawing room-eating the biscuits that she had made and talking to her girlfriend as if he understood how special Luna was, and, in fact, understood her perfectly. Luna seemed happy enough, her eyes glowing as she described the breeding process they'd used for the winged kittens, but then, Luna could be happy when talking to a giant.

"I'm sorry, Ginny." Harry, who'd come into the kitchen to help her bring her next plate of food out, reached up and caught her wrist, massaging his fingers gently across the pulse in her wrist. "Is this too hard for you? Should we leave?"

Ginny rolled her eyes and snorted. "Only you would try to comfort someone by insulting them," she snapped, and slammed the plate of small sandwiches down in the middle of the counter. Harry took a step back. _Auror instincts, _Ginny thought, and made herself pause for a second so that she wouldn't get a curse up the nose. "Implying that I'm a coward?"

"I did?" Harry frowned, cocking his head. He looked healthier than he had in years; reluctantly, Ginny had to admit that. His face was more filled out, not as pale, and without the hard worry lines that she now knew came, at least partially, from all the lies he'd been telling others and himself.

"That this was too hard to face," Ginny said grimly. "I'm _fine_."

Too late, she realized that she had half-shouted the last words, and that there was startled silence from the drawing room. Luna resumed talking a minute later, but the mood had probably been shattered. Ginny grimaced.

"I know you don't like him," Harry said. "And I didn't mean that you were too cowardly to face him. Just-why would you want someone you don't like here on a Saturday afternoon?"

Ginny sighed. "Because it pleases you," she said, and reached up to squeeze Harry's wrist and turn his head to the side so that she could kiss his cheek. She half-hoped that Malfoy, who seemed overly interested in where Harry went and who he touched, would step into the kitchen just then-Luna wouldn't care-but he didn't. "Because that's more important to me than whether I like him, personally."

Harry shook his head, mouth forming into a hard line. "I don't want to cause anyone more misery because of what I've been through. If he annoys you, then tell me."

"He annoys me because of how much he doesn't annoy me," Ginny admitted. "There's-he's talking to Luna, and he looks at you and touches you like you're important to him, and-" She ended up waving her hand, taking in a great expanse of empty air that she could never turn into the right words.

Harry smiled at her, and the hard lines relaxed, which Ginny was glad to see. "All right. Come out and meet him, then." He picked up the sandwiches and enchanted the fresh glasses of water and lemonade to float behind them, and stepped out into the drawing room. Ginny followed him, telling herself she was _not _using him as a shield.

Malfoy and Luna both looked up when they came in. Luna was smiling, as she did so often, and Ginny's heart softened at the sight. The only times Luna stopped smiling were the rare occasions that the world hurt or distressed her, but Ginny knew so many different forms of the expression from her, from the uncomplicated joy on display here to the small round "o" that her lips tended to form when Ginny went down on her.

And Malfoy-

It didn't last long. Ginny could have pretended that it didn't exist at all, if she wanted to. But she thought it was there, and she admitted its existence to herself, in the privacy of her head.

Malfoy looked at Harry with some of the same joy. And Harry looked back with it so palpable that standing next to him was like standing in the middle of a hot breeze.

And, well. If Malfoy could do that, then Ginny could do better, because she was a better person than he was, after all. So she smiled at him, and gave him the first glass of lemonade, and sat down beside Luna to talk like a normal adult.

He made Harry happy. That was plain to see. For that, Ginny could try to forget the past and move into the future.

* * *

"Ahhh..."

Draco pulled out of Harry with a snort and flopped down beside him. Harry was as free with his grunts and groans when Draco fucked him as the other way around, but they still weren't words. Draco traced a pattern over his chest, between his nipples, and wondered whether he could teach Harry to talk during sex, eventually.

_If it goes on long enough, perhaps. _

Not that Draco had much fear of that, as long as one of them didn't get bored. Harry was more inventive than he'd given him credit for, and more eager to learn how to _live _instead of serve as a mindless automaton. And Draco knew more ways than anyone else in the world to be interesting. He had to admit, the fears of boredom he had usually dissipated when he thought about them seriously. How could anyone get bored of _him_?

Harry rolled his head over to look at Draco. He was panting, tongue falling out of his mouth and across his face rather like his limp cock did over his belly. Draco smiled at him and pinched one of his nipples. Harry arched, then swatted his hand away and shook his head. He still didn't like too much pain.

That was all right. Someday, Draco might find pain that he liked, and in the meantime, he could give Harry plenty of pleasure.

Harry seemed to catch his expression just then, and shook his head in bemusement. "Are you always going to look like that?"

"Like what?" Draco sank his teeth into Harry's shoulder, not deep enough to make Harry flinch, and sucked thoughtfully at the raised skin.

Harry waited until Draco raised his head, as though Draco's having a full mouth would prevent _him _from talking. "Like you don't know how the earth continues to orbit the sun instead of you."

"Probably," Draco said, and rolled down beside Harry again, flinging an arm around him. "I'll teach you to do the same thing, in time."

"Will not."

"Yes, _that's _an impressive argument," Draco said, and closed his eyes. Harry was always more reluctant to disturb him when he looked like that. One of the advantages of having a partner Draco knew was more tender and generous than _he _was.

"Draco."

"What?" On the other hand, the generosity and tenderness weren't always in evidence. Draco opened one eye before a bruising finger could poke his ribs.

Harry was looking down at him, and his face was gentle and open. Even the magic mirror, if Draco still allowed it to speak when they were in front of it, would have had to work hard to put words to that expression. Harry reached out as Draco watched, transfixed, and brushed the backs of his fingers down Draco's cheek.

"Thank you for saving me," Harry said simply.

Draco settled for sucking one finger into his mouth so that he could watch Harry's eyes darken with desire.

Because what he would have said if he didn't was something along the lines of, _I might have the better end of the bargain._

And Harry, well, he didn't need to _hear _that. Just feel it.

** The End.**


End file.
